


Promises Kept and Broken

by Gwidhiel



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Not slow burn but slow build, Post-Canon, jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-03-30 01:11:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 69,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19031695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwidhiel/pseuds/Gwidhiel
Summary: A year after the deadly dragon attack on King's Landing, Bran’s plans come to fruition, as Sansa rebuilds the North and brings Jon home.





	1. Chapter 1

Ser Podrick opened the door to the royal solar, ushering a slightly out-of-breath Samwell Tarly into the room. Ser Podrick gestured to the adjacent terrace that overlooked Blackwater Bay, and Samwell spotted the back of the king’s wheeled chair. 

“Thank you,” he said, before starting toward the king. Ser Podrick smiled and nodded before closing the door behind him.

Sam was eight months into his unorthodox arrangement with the Citadel – an unprecedented state of affairs that the maesters of Oldtown had reluctantly accepted (and many openly resented). But so far it was working: Sam served as maester to King Brandon, and wore the white robe that was traditionally associated with that post. But he did not hold the title of Grand Maester, and would not until he had forged enough links to complete his chain and fully realize his dream of becoming a maester. To accomplish this, he split his time between his studies in Oldtown and his duties in King's Landing, traveling back and forth each month. Archmaester Ebrose recognized the value in the Citadel having the ear of the enigmatic king, and had so far been reasonably supportive of Sam’s efforts, even going so far as to quell the most persistent of the Citadel’s grumblers with well-placed reminders that they had all failed to recognize – to even believe – the dangers Sam had warned them about when he’d first arrived at the Citadel from the Wall.

King Bran’s reasons for wanting him to serve as his maester were less clear to Sam, but he liked to think it was because Bran did not fully trust his Hand to do what was right when it mattered most. Tyrion Lannister could be clever, but his pride and self-importance had more than once clouded his judgement. Samwell still had to wonder why Bran had been so quick to appoint an ardent follower of the most notorious pyromaniac in all history to a position of power and influence – but as King Bran himself had said at the time, working to make right what he’d helped to destroy was a fitting penance for the last of the Lannisters.

There was no sign of the King’s Hand as Sam stepped onto the terrace. The king himself was gazing sightlessly over the bay, the whites of his eyes signaling that although his body was seated in the wheeled chair, Bran was off flying somewhere. Bran held a scroll loosely in his hand, but Sam could not detect who the message was from without picking it up. Instead, Sam ambled over to the balcony rail, prepared to wait.

He did not have to wait too long, turning when he heard the king stirring behind him. He was greeted by the disarmingly sweet smile that Bran was still capable of showing at times - to Podrick Payne, Brienne of Tarth, Davos Seaworth, the kitchen servants, or Samwell himself. Sam took small satisfaction from the fact that he had never observed Bran smiling his sweet smile at Tyrion Lannister.

“Samwell, welcome. I trust your journey from Oldtown was uneventful?” Bran asked.

Smalltalk with Brandon Stark was irregular and unpredictable. “Erm … yes it was, as perhaps Your Grace is already aware?” Sam replied tentatively.

“Sam, please do call me Bran when it’s just the two of us. And no, I wasn’t asking a question I already knew the answer to – I did not observe you on the road from Oldtown. In fact, I’ve never had occasion to observe you, Sam, and I don’t expect I ever will,” Bran reassured him kindly.

“Ah no, erm, of course not, that is I didn’t mean to suggest that you would bother –“ Sam stammered before Bran interrupted him.

“It is not that your actions are of no interest to me, it’s that I trust you would tell me the truth if I asked,” he explained.

“Ah! Well thank you, Your Grace. Bran. I had wondered because it was a surprise to be met at the city gate by Ser Podrick with summons to see you immediately. He was expecting me, it seemed, and that could only have been because you sent him.”

“I did send him to meet you today, but that was because you always return from Oldtown on the second day of the month. I’m afraid poor Podrick had to wait many hours at the gate for your arrival since I didn’t know exactly when you’d get here. And thank you for coming directly to see me. There is something I would like to discuss with you before I raise it tomorrow with the rest of the Small Council.”

“Of course! It’s my pleasure to be of any assistance I can. May I know what the matter is?”

Bran raised the scroll that was still in his hand. “I’ve had a message from my sister Sansa. She would like to know if the Wall is still needed to protect Westeros, now that the White Walkers are gone forever. What do you think, Sam?”

Sam gaped for a moment at the unexpected question. “Well, are they truly gone forever, Bran? Can you know this for certain?”

“I can, and they are.”

“Well, in that case, the only thing the Wall could keep out of Westeros are the Wildlings who’ve returned to the far North.”

“And the Wall has only ever been an impediment to the Wildlings, not a sure means of protection.”

“No, no, indeed. … May I ask, what else does Queen Sansa say? Why is she wondering about the necessity of the Wall?”

“As you know, the Wall was broken at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea when the Night King attacked there. As it is no longer whole, it is no longer an effective barrier against any threat. If it is needed, it must be repaired.”

“Ah, yes of course. In fact, I’d imagine that the builders of the Night’s Watch have already begun the repairs?”

“The Night’s Watch is now less than 300 men: The Eastwatch garrison is gone. Only a few remained at Castle Black when Lord Commander Tollett led a force to join the defense of Winterfell against the Army of the Dead. Jon Snow asked Daenerys Targaryen to release those who survived the Battle of Winterfell from their vows, and only twenty chose to return to Castle Black. Six months ago Denys Mallister was elected Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch; he took half of Shadow Tower’s two hundred men with him to Castle Black.”

“Yes, I’d heard about Denys Mallister becoming Lord Commander. He’s a good man although he may not have many years left to him” Sam opined.

“Perhaps not,” Bran seemed to agree. “He has requested reinforcements but since the Dragon’s Sack we’ve only sent one man to the Wall.”

Sam looked uncomfortably down at his feet and said nothing.

“And Sansa says that the wars that beset the North for so many years have depleted their population to the point where there are empty holdfasts and farmsteads. They have no men to spare.”

“I see. Her question, then, is a wholly practical matter,” Sam mused, with a speculative gleam in his eye.

“Sansa is a very practical woman,” Bran replied evenly.

Sam was silent for a long moment, his arms crossed and head bowed in thought. Bran sat placidly, patiently staring out over the bay as if he too were lost in thought.

Sam raised his head, peering intently at Bran, as Bran turned to meet his gaze. “Your Grace, there is another thing to consider. Before the Dragon’s Sack, when the North was part of the Seven Kingdoms, the Crown’s duty to the Night’s Watch and the Wall was clear. But now that the North is independent, one might argue that the Wall and the Night’s Watch are the North’s responsibility, not the Six Kingdoms’.”

“Yes that is Sansa’s position,” Bran replied.

“I thought it might be. So she is not seeking your assistance to repair the Wall, or your permission to abandon it; she’ll reserve that decision for herself. She simply wants to know if it is necessary any longer.”

“Yes.”

“And you will tell her that since the White Walkers are no longer a threat, the Wall is no longer necessary?”

“Yes.”

“I am in agreement. But I don’t see why you needed my advice,” Sam remarked.

“The Wall is one of the Nine Wonders Made by Man. And, in addition to its original purpose, the Night’s Watch has long served Westeros as a means of disposing of criminals and other inconvenient men. The lords of the Six Kingdoms might not like it if I ceded control of the Wall to my sister in the North.”

“Indeed they might not,” Sam nodded. “So we’ll need to persuade them that it’s a burden the country no longer needs, and can ill afford at the moment. They’ll need to see it as a problem we’re dumping on Sansa.”

“Exactly.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion is at odds with the rest of the Small Council about the fate of the Night's Watch, and one of its members in particular.

Tyrion Lannister rubbed his eyes wearily. The small council had been debating about the Night’s Watch and the Wall for more than an hour, and he was growing increasingly frustrated by his colleagues’ apparent lack of concern about handing over control of Westeros’s most famous landmark to its independent, if friendly, northern neighbor.

“It’s not just the Wall itself,” Tyrion insisted. “We’d be effectively giving Sansa all of the land north of the Wall, which would double the size of her realm, at our expense!”

Davos Seaworth scoffed, “I don’t believe the Wildlings who live there would agree with you. They’re not going to bend the knee to any king or queen not of their own choosing. I don’t see how you can say we’d be losing something that was never ours to begin with.”

“And while I know you’ve been to the Wall yourself, Lord Tyrion,” Sam added, “I don’t believe you’ve ever been in the lands north of it. They are inhospitable and ill-suited to any but the most rudimentary settlements.”

“I can’t believe we’re still talking about spending money and men on a bloody broken down ice wall that nobody needs anymore!” Bronn exclaimed in exasperation. Tyrion was not the only one weary of the conversation. “And as I understand it, it didn’t do its job when the Night King came calling. So what good is it now? If the Queen in the North wants to repair the fuckin’ thing, let her take care of it herself!”

Tyrion sighed. “I concede the point that the Wall is no longer worth maintaining as a means of protecting the realm from foes that no longer exist. But that doesn’t address the problem of the Night’s Watch, its ancient obligations and noble traditions.”

Bronn was ready for a fight. “So you admit now that the Wall itself is useless, but you still want to send able-bodied men there to work it? Because of some stupid old tradition? Only rich men can afford to worry about useless traditions, and in case you haven’t realized it yet, _Lord Lannister,_ you ain’t as rich as you used to be, thanks to your fuckin’ Dragon Queen.”

Tyrion bristled, “The Night’s Watch serves a purpose far greater than frivolous sentimentality! It has long been a way for men to serve their country while making amends for past crimes. The Wall is a uniquely merciful alternative to putting criminals to death or having them languish in prisons, allowing men to make their penance while being of use to the realm.”

Brienne entered the fray with a frown, “But we’ve established that the Night’s Watch no longer has a purpose, since the Wall itself is no longer needed. So criminals sentenced to spend their lives at the Wall will not be making themselves useful.”

“Yeah, better to set them working in the fields if we’re looking to get use out of ‘em.” Bronn added. “Besides, if we’re telling the Queen in the North that she’ll need to fix the Wall herself, why would she take our criminals off our hands for us? Just let her have it and be done with it!”

“But what about the men who are already at the Wall, sworn to the Night’s Watch for the entirety of their lives? We can’t just take them back. Many of them have committed serious crimes!” Tyrion pointed out.

“Not all of them,” Sam retorted indignantly. “And since the Wall has had only one new recruit since The Battle of Winterfell, we know that all who remain in the Night’s Watch fulfilled their vows to be the shield that guards the realm of men. More Night’s Watch men died than survived in service of that pledge. Those who fought and survived the Battle of Winterfell were released from their vows by Jon Snow and the Dragon Queen.”

“Jon Snow is the reason we cannot wash our hands of the Night’s Watch and the Wall now!” Tyrion nearly shouted. “He was sent there to pay for his crimes, crimes which were committed after the Night King was defeated! It has been only a year since he left for the Wall. Whether or not we can consider the other men’s debts to society paid with the death of the Night King, it is indisputable that we cannot do so for Jon Snow!!”

A tense silence filled the room, and Tyrion looked uneasily at the incredulous faces of those seated at the table. Even Bronn, an amoral mercenary who wouldn’t have hesitated to kill a babe-in-arms if there was profit for him in it, looked at him in disbelief. Only the king remained impassive after his outburst.

Davos’s voice was soft but contemptuous when he spoke. “And what crimes would those be, Lord Tyrion? Because I had the impression that sending Jon Snow to the Wall was a thing of expedience, done to satisfy the misguided notion of justice that the Dragon Queen’s foreign soldiers insisted on before they left Westeros.”

Tyrion frowned, “You know as well as I do, Lord Davos, that Jon Snow is a queenslayer, who killed a defenseless woman, who - ”

Sam interrupted Tyrion, “ _You,_ of all people, dare to speak of what Jon did? You, who were there when your Dragon Queen burned my father and brother alive? You watched as she burned an entire city of innocent men, women, and children, yet you call Daenerys Targaryen a ‘defenseless woman’!?! It beggars belief that you stand here judging Jon for doing something good and necessary, something you were too cowardly to do. You had the chance, you said yourself that you were standing beside her with the nearest guard twenty paces away. You could have used that moment to kill her. Instead you merely resigned as her Hand. You left it to Jon to kill her, and we’re all grateful that he did. Your own brother killed her father because the Mad King _intended_ to burn down King’s Landing. Jaime Lannister wasn’t sent to the Wall - he didn’t even have to give up his position in the Kingsguard! But you dare to stand here and argue that Jon deserves to be punished for killing a vicious, power-mad woman who murdered thousands of innocent people?”

Tyrion shook his head, “It’s not the same thing as Jaime killing the Mad King. Jon Snow can never return to the Six Kingdoms - he betrayed his queen only after helping her to destroy the better part of this city, and so will always be viewed with suspicion. And it’s now widely known that he’s a Targaryen to boot, which makes him a kinslayer as well as the last surviving member of the most despised family in Westeros! To let him return from the Wall would be signing his death warrant. The Wall is the best place for him.”

“Those are pretty words coming from the mouth of a known kinslayer and the last remaining member of the _second_ -most hated family in Westeros,” Davos observed acerbically. 

The king had been silent throughout the long debate, but now he spoke, drawing all eyes. “Jon Snow will never again set foot in this city. As for the Wall and the Night’s Watch, we’ll let my sister decide what to do. The Wall is in the North, and it is no longer a concern of this realm.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion and Bran discuss what to do about the only person in Westeros known to mourn Daenerys Targaryen.

Tyrion knew he’d lost the battle. He bowed to the king and sighed, “It shall be as Your Grace wishes. I’ll write a letter to Queen Sansa informing her of your decision.” 

“No need, Lord Tyrion,” said the king. “I’ll write to her myself.” He nodded and the members of the Small Council rose to their feet. Brienne nodded at Ser Podrick, who stepped forward from the door to take hold of Bran’s chair and smoothly turn it around.

“Your Grace, before you leave, may I have a moment to speak with you?” Tyrion hurried from his seat at the far end of the long table, as the others stood, waiting for the king to exit the room. 

“Of course.” Bran raised his hand and Podrick brought the chair to a halt. “Are the others needed for this conversation?”

Tyrion bowed his head, “Thank you, Your Grace. And no, we need not detain them.” At a nod from Bran, Sam, Brienne, Davos, and Bronn filed from the room. Ser Podrick remained standing behind Bran’s chair.

When the door had closed again, Tyrion lifted his head, his face somber. “I do not anticipate that the Prince of Dorne will care one way or another about the fate of the Wall, or of Jon Snow. Likewise, I do not expect that Edmure Tully, Gendry Baratheon, or Robert Arryn will object to Sansa assuming control of the Wall and the Night’s Watch. But I fear that Yara Greyjoy will be most displeased if Jon Snow’s sentence is lifted.”

Bran cocked his head in consideration. “Yara Greyjoy is subject to the Crown’s rule. Moreover, the Iron Isles have been slow to recover from their losses. Euron Greyjoy stripped the islands of every standing tree, and considerable stretches of the nearby mainland as well, to build his armada. When Daenerys Targaryen destroyed that armada, not only were all of those ships lost, but a majority of the Iron Isles’ fighting men as well. Yara might not like it if Sansa decides to pardon Jon Snow, but she won’t be in a position to do something about it anytime soon.”

“All Yara needs is one ship and a dozen men to be able to attack and raid Northern coastal positions. She’s powerless to hit Sansa at Winterfell, of course, and I doubt she’s even a meaningful threat to well-fortified towns like White Harbor. But she could easily do enough damage to be a nuisance - and if she does start raiding Northern towns in revenge, we’ll find ourselves at odds with Sansa,” Tyrion pointed out.

“So we need to ensure that Yara Greyjoy does not choose to pursue revenge against Jon Snow and the North, if Sansa does release him from his vow to the Night’s Watch,” Bran observed.

“Will she pardon him? Is this something you know already, Your Grace?” asked Tyrion.

“Sansa is free to choose her path, I cannot say what she will do.” As ever, when Tyrion asked about Bran’s greenseeing abilities the response was opaque. Bran continued, “And Yara Greyjoy is also free to choose her own path. It is important that she sees the different paths that lie before her, rather than simply taking the most familiar. The fate of the Iron Isles is uncertain right now; traditionally their economy has depended on raiding and piracy. They cannot continue to live by the iron price, as they call it. Yara herself promised it would stop when she made her alliance with Daenerys Targaryen. If Yara would hold Jon Snow accountable for killing her queen, she must herself be willing to adhere to the promise she made to that queen.”

Until today Tyrion had never discussed Yara Greyjoy with Bran, and he was reasonably certain he hadn’t ever shared with anyone the details of the long-ago conversation in Mereen he’d had with Yara, her brother, and Daenerys Targaryen. But he was no longer surprised by what Bran could know if he chose to.

“Your reasoning is impeccable, Your Grace, but I am not so sure that Yara will see it that way. She greatly admired Daenerys Targaryen.”

“She did not witness the horrors of the Dragon’s Sack first-hand. And she had little reason to love the citizens of Kings Landing, given the welcome they gave her when she was paraded through the streets as Euron Greyjoy’s captive.”

“No, indeed, you are right, Your Grace. She has chosen to believe a version of the Dragon Queen’s story that suits her need to believe that a woman can be just as strong and able a ruler as any man.”

“For proof of that, she need only look to my sister in the North. Clinging to thoughts of revenge on behalf of Daenerys Targaryen might be comforting to her now, but it will not help Yara Greyjoy lead her people to a prosperous future. She needs a new story, one that isn’t centered on raiding and revenge,” Bran offered.

“Yes, I see what you mean, Your Grace. Is there something you had in mind, a previously unseen path that could be revealed to Yara?” Tyrion asked hopefully.

“I do not have anything particular in mind, Lord Tyrion, but I think that you may be the right person to help Yara Greyjoy choose her fate. You have a way with words, a love of stories, and you have much in common with her: you both have inherited lands depleted of their traditional resources, and will both have to find new ways to rebuild your houses’ fortunes. And you both loved Daenerys Targaryen and fell under her sway. Who better than you to help her see the Dragon Queen for what she truly was?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thousandth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch prepares for a visit from the Queen in the North

Denys Mallister, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, sighed as he closed another of the dusty tomes that the new maester had miraculously managed to quickly locate in Castle Black’s considerable library, despite his recent arrival less than three months earlier. Although Lord Denys’s pleas for more men had not been answered, he’d been gratified by the Citadel’s response to his request for a new maester. At thirty, Maester Taras Qoqu was tall and slender, quiet, sure-footed, keenly observant, and quick-minded. Twelve years ago he’d come all the way from the Summer Isles to study at Oldtown, and was now just about as far away from the land of his birth as a man could get. Denys had been surprised to learn that Maester Taras had requested the posting to the Wall, thinking that his southern blood would slowly freeze living on a wall of ice under grey northern skies. But he had quickly come to admire and appreciate the new maester, and the man’s interest in building techniques would be a boon to the Night’s Watch, with all of the repairs that lay before them. If only they could get more men.

The thousandth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch was not optimistic about getting more men. In fact, he was worried about keeping the men that they had. A raven from King’s Landing a month ago had informed him that Brandon Stark, King of the Six Kingdoms, had acknowledged his sister as the sole authority in the North and in any matters pertaining to the Wall. The letter he’d received a week later from Queen Sansa Stark made him uneasy: the young queen informed him that she would be arriving at Castle Black at the end of the month, accompanied by Lord Wylis Manderly, to discuss “the present and future needs of the Wall, and of the Night’s Watch.” Denys knew that the North had no men to spare these days, so it seemed unlikely that the Queen was coming to offer assistance. What, then, was her purpose?

To prepare for this meeting, the Lord Commander had been poring through old record books and some diaries kept by long-dead lord commanders who’d served before the Targaryen Conquest, over three hundred years in the past. He was looking for insight about the relationship between the Night’s Watch and the Stark kings of old. What he’d gleaned so far made it clear that when the Starks had ruled from Winterfell, the Night’s Watch had been firmly in their jurisdiction - lord commanders corresponded regularly with Winterfell, reporting on activity north of the Wall and coordinating patrols south of it. Northern holdfasts sent regular shipments of supplies to the Wall, and Lord Denys was surprised to find no record of payment for most of them. Supplying the Night’s Watch appeared to have been deemed an obligation of all Northern households, whether or not one of their own was currently serving in the Night’s Watch. 

The size of the Night’s Watch prior to the Conquest dwarfed what it had been in Denys’s earliest days nearly fifty years ago as a young recruit, let alone what it was today. The contemporary record books indicated that when Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon Targaryen, he’d spared the North from the threat of devastation by dragonfire, but doomed the Night’s Watch to neglect. Once tax money started to flow from the North to King’s Landing, northern families could no longer afford to maintain the Night’s Watch free of charge, and the relationship between Castle Black and Winterfell loosened and weakened as the Night’s Watch had to look further afield for financial support. It was surely no coincidence that once the Night’s Watch had to keep up a constant campaign for funds from the kings and great lords in the South, there was a steep decline in non-criminal volunteers for the Night’s Watch. The prestige and honor associated with serving in the Night’s Watch evaporated among all but the most tradition-minded houses. After the Conquest, the Wall and the Night’s Watch were the responsibility of the Iron Throne, and while some Targaryen monarchs had taken an interest and devoted some crucial resources to the Wall and its keepers, its position on the northern edge of the kingdom was too far away to become an integral part of life in Dorne, the Stormlands, or King’s Landing, as it had once been in the North, when the Starks had ruled. And so the Night’s Watch had dwindled. 

Now the North was once more ruled from Winterfell by a Stark, but the Lord Commander was not hopeful that things would return to the way they’d been three hundred years ago. If Queen Sansa had resources to devote to repairing and manning the Wall, Denys would be very surprised indeed. And if she did not, which was surely the case, why was she taking the trouble to come in person to Castle Black to explain this all-too-evident fact? And why was the son and heir of the richest noble in the North accompanying her? Denys had written to Wyman Manderly immediately after his election to Lord Commander, requesting men from White Harbor for the Wall. Lord Manderly had sent three wagonfuls of foodstuffs and woolen cloth, but no men.

Denys sighed and pushed back from his desk, stretched, and stood. He was over six feet tall, with a back still straight as a good arrow, despite his sixty-three years. He wondered how many more were left to him - how many good years. He shook his head and started towards the door, intending to consult with the Chief Steward to make sure that all was ready for the queen’s arrival. As he pulled the door open, a horn sounded, the horn announcing someone approaching Castle Black on the King’s Road. The queen had arrived. The Lord Commander turned back to grab his cloak, tying it on as he strode down the hallway to greet Sansa Stark.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maester Taras is impressed by the Queen in the North

Maester Taras Qoqu watched as the Queen in the North and her entourage dismounted. Taras observed with interest that one of the two young ladies who accompanied the young queen - sisters by the look of them - had dyed her light hair a startling shade of green, which gave her a Tyroshi look. Taras had traveled extensively through the Free Cities as a boy on his father’s swan ships. Scion of a wealthy merchant family from Ebonhead on the island of Jhala, Taras had startled his parents and grandparents when he had announced, at the age of eighteen, his intention to seek entrance to study at the Citadel in the Westerosi city of Oldtown, and to earn a maester’s chain. They were even more astonished when he’d written to inform them of his posting to the Wall, but by then his family had reconciled themselves to the fact that Taras was an eccentric prone to taking strange paths.

Taras had liked the Lord Commander almost immediately: the old man was intelligent and honest, if a bit stiff and proud. Taras had discerned Lord Commander Mallister’s unease since receiving Queen Sansa’s letter, and the two had discussed what it could imply. As two of the very few literate men among the remaining members of the Night’s Watch, the maester and the Lord Commander had quickly developed an easy rapport. 

Taras watched the Lord Commander as he knelt before the red-haired queen, rising and taking the hand she quickly held out. He offered his arm, and conducted her to where the men were assembled, standing at attention, Taras among them. In unison, the men of the Night’s Watch knelt before the Queen in the North.

“Please do rise, men of the Night’s Watch. I’m very pleased to be back at Castle Black and to see some familiar faces, along with some new ones,” the young queen addressed the group. The brothers rose to stand at attention again.

Castle Black’s maester was the third to be introduced to the queen, after the senior ranger on hand and the Chief Steward (both of whom she’d met before). Taras smiled and bowed to Sansa Stark, who smiled in return, and remarked “Your face is new to me - did you come from Shadow Tower with the Lord Commander, Maester Taras?”

“No, Your Grace, I did not. I arrived here at Castle Black from the Citadel three months ago.”

“Did you? I imagine that the Wall is very different from Oldtown, although I’ve never had the chance to visit there myself. How are you acclimating?”

Taras bowed again, “Very well, Your Grace, as this is a fascinating, majestic place, very different from my native country.”

The queen smiled warmly and leaned forward a bit. “And where is that, Maester Taras - the Summer Isles?”

“You are correct, Your Grace. I hail from the island of Jhala,” Taras replied.

“Sometime I should like to hear about your native land, and the journey that has led you here, Maester.”

“It would be my great honor to speak with you about anything you’d like, Your Grace.”

And then Sansa Stark moved on to greet the next man in line. Taras thought she was a strikingly beautiful young woman, charming and warm, with the appearance of intelligence. He noted that she seemed to wear the mantle of her office with ease, neither placing undue weight on formalities and titles, nor dispensing with them entirely. The respect and interest she showed to each of the men she was introduced to suggested a woman who took her duty to her people seriously. Taras found himself looking forward to speaking with the queen again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a year living with the Wildlings, Jon Snow receives two letters.

Jon turned at the sound of footsteps approaching his perch on a rocky outcrop overlooking the valley that sheltered Ruddy Hall. He nodded briefly in greeting to Tormund Giantsbane, who’d welcomed Jon as an honored guest at Ruddy Hall when they’d arrived together a year ago from Castle Black. Tormund had been delighted to find his house still standing more than two years after he’d left it, untouched by squatters or wild animals. The Far North had been cleared of the living by the Army of the Dead, and the Wildlings who’d returned after the Battle of Winterfell in greatly reduced numbers found a vast, empty land.

As the various Wildling clans had always viewed each other with mistrust and animosity, this felt to some like a fresh start, a chance to make new lives unencumbered by the perpetual threat of violence from their fellow men, or worse, from the White Walkers. Tormund himself was buoyant, cheerfully helping his neighbors and kin to rebuild, and to hunt and fish as they always had. The subdued man who lived with them - Crow, King, Queenslayer - was rarely seen smiling, but pulled his own weight on hunts, and in the skinning and butchering that was a regular feature of Wildling life. Jon Snow also devoted hours to training boys, young men, and also some young women in the basics of sword-fighting. He was a part of the new community, and also apart from it. Though he’d immediately traded his Night’s Watch cloak for proper Wilding furs upon arriving at Ruddy Hall, he kept to himself when not working, and usually spoke only to respond to others.

“The two crow rangers from Castle Black who’ve spied on us now and then have come calling,” Tormund announced. “They’re looking for you.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. Why now? He’d half-expected to be called to account for deserting the Night’s Watch when he’d first departed with the Wildling host heading north, but after six months had passed without any attempted contact from the Wall, Jon had assumed that they were happy to be rid of him. He rose and shook out his furs.

“They’ve got letters for you,” Tormund explained. “One from the Chief Crow. One from your cousin, the Queen.”

Jon’s head lifted as his eyes met Tormund’s. He broke into a jog as he headed down the hill to Ruddy Hall. Tormund gave a bark of laughter and followed at a more leisurely pace.

Riler Myle had been First Ranger at Shadow Tower before coming with Denys Mallister to Castle Black. His companion, Darrin Hill, had also been part of the Shadow Tower garrison; both were strangers to Jon. After briefly introducing themselves, they regarded him soberly, assessingly. At a nod from Riler, Darrin pulled two letters from a waxed pouch in his saddlebag, and handed them silently to Jon.

Tormund came up behind him, clasping his left shoulder. “Will your Crow brothers stay the night with us?” he ostensibly asked Jon while looking inquiringly at Riler and Darrin. The rangers exchanged a pointed look before Riler replied, “If we are invited guests, we would be grateful for the shelter.” Tormund laughed, “Well of course you’re invited! Any friends of Jon Snow are friends of Tormund Giantsbane! Do you vouch for your Crow friends, Snow?”

Jon had been staring at the letters in his hand, lost in thought. He looked up at the question and startled, as if seeing the two rangers for the first time. “What? Oh … yes. What precisely are your orders, Myle?”

Riler Myle replied, “To deliver the letters to you, and to travel with you back to Castle Black, if you choose to return. We’ll depart in the morning, with or without you.”

Tormund clapped his big hands together, “It’s settled, then, you’ll stay the night here with us. I’ve got a nice deer over the fire outside and a big jug of mead.” He strode outside to check on the deer.

“Thank you,” Riler Myle said curtly to Jon. Jon appeared to be lost in thought again, staring once more at the letters in his hand. 

“Aren’t you going to read them?’ Darrin Hill asked. Jon looked up without answering. “If you can’t read, Riler here can,” Darrin continued.

“I can read,” Jon answered. He turned over the Lord Commander’s letter, broke the seal, and scanned it quickly, then set it on a rough-hewn table. “A convening of all the Night’s Watch?” he asked.

“Aye,” said Riler Myle. 

“What for?” Jon asked.

“Guess we’ll find out when it happens,” the First Ranger replied, unhelpfully.

“Your sister, the Queen in the North, came to Castle Black a week ago to consult with the Lord Commander,” Darrin offered. "Riler and me were out on patrol when she arrived but we returned before she left. She’s beautiful, your sister.”

“Sansa is not my sister,” Jon replied quickly. “She’s my cousin.”

Darrin looked confused but said nothing. Riler shot him a quelling glare.

Jon still held Sansa’s letter, unopened. He was both eager and apprehensive to read it, and there was no way he was going to read it in front of the two curious rangers. “Excuse me,” he said simply, as he headed outside. He walked briskly up the path to where he’d been sitting when Tormund found him. He sat down on the rocky perch, and turned over the letter to look at the Stark seal. He found his hands were shaking a bit as he broke it and spread open the letter.

_Jon,_

_Bran and I have reached an agreement that governance of the Wall belongs to the North; Bran has affirmed that the Crown of the Six Kingdoms relinquishes any and all claims to the Wall and its attached properties, and also cedes jurisdiction over the Night’s Watch to the North, in perpetuity.  
Lord Commander Mallister and I have discussed the present state of the Wall and the Night’s Watch, and their role in the North henceforth. Bran confirmed that the ancient threat posed by the White Walkers is gone forever, and thus the original purpose of the Wall, and the Night’s Watch, is also gone._

_The changed circumstances pose a quandary for the men of the Night’s Watch, particularly those, like Lord Commander Mallister, who voluntarily devoted their lives to serve as the shields that guard the realm of men. I have presented a choice to the men of the Night’s Watch: to continue their ancient brotherhood as it has always been, knowing that they will be the last to serve, or to be released from their vows to embark upon new lives: on farms of their own in the North, or possibly as Stark soldiers stationed at the Wall, with the same freedoms and responsibilities as any other soldier, including the freedom to leave the Wall for another post, or to quit soldiering altogether, when and if they choose._

_You will have received a separate letter from Lord Commander Mallister, who has summoned all remaining members of the Night’s Watch to Castle Black to discuss the choice before them. Whether or not you answer his summons, and whatever you choose for yourself, I would have you know that Winterfell’s doors will always be open to you, whether you choose to return as my brother, or my cousin, or simply a man of the North. The North has great need of you. As do I. But you have already given so much to protect our people, and if it is your wish now to live amongst the Wildlings, or to return to the Wall, or something else entirely I will respect your wishes. Winterfell will always be a home for you, even if you choose to never return._

_Yours, always,  
Sansa_

Jon stared blindly down at the page, his eyes brimming with tears. Home. Sansa offered him home and hope. She did not mention the barriers that he would surely face as a queenslayer, a kinslayer, a participant in the destruction of an entire city of innocent men, women, and children. 

_“The North has great need of you. As do I.”_ Jon doubted that: he’d ignored Sansa’s advice on more than one occasion and they’d all paid the price for his mistakes. She’d warned him not to go south, but he had, and had brought ruin upon himself and countless others. The only thing he could be proud of, and grateful for, was that Sansa was still alive, despite his mistakes.

He knew that Sansa would rule the North well. She didn’t need him. But she’d made it clear that he was nevertheless welcome at Winterfell, if he chose to come. After the months he’d spent contorting himself to placate his self-absorbed, ruthless aunt, the murderous, power-mad Dragon Queen who’d itched to kill Sansa and anyone else who dared to resist her, Sansa’s gentle invitation to come home was like a balm. He’d been deliberately shutting out all thought of Sansa since he returned North, lest it drive him mad. The sister he’d fallen in love with became the cousin he’d probably never see again. But her letter broke the dam, and his pent-up, long-denied love for Sansa washed over him so strongly that he gasped aloud. He looked out at the Wildling settlement in the valley in the waning afternoon light. His choice was already made, no matter what it would cost him. Sansa was offering him a chance to go home and he was determined that he’d never give her cause to regret it. He stood up, folded the letter carefully and tucked it into a pocket before turning back to Ruddy Hall.

Tormund looked up from the table where he sat eating and drinking with the two rangers. “Ah here he is. Wasn’t sure how long you’d be brooding up there on your rock, so we’ve started without you.” 

Jon pulled up a chair and took the cup Tormund pushed over. He smiled in thanks, and Tormund’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Must be good news in that letter from the Queen in the North!” He turned to the two rangers, “This is the first time I’ve seen Jon Snow smile in months.”

Jon fought back his instinct to retreat into protective silence in response to the three interested faces looking inquiringly at him. Silence was not the way forward. He took a deep breath, and replied with some effort, “Aye. My cousin Sansa has explained the choice she’s giving to the men of the Night’s Watch. Do you know about this already?” he asked Riler and Darrin. 

“Aye. We can choose to stay or go. It’s why the Lord Commander is gathering what’s left of us to talk it over,” Darrin replied eagerly. “I don’t know what I’ll decide yet - I’ve been with the Night’s Watch since me mum died when I was thirteen. She was all the family I had before I came to Shadow Tower ten years ago. And Riler here has been a brother of the Night’s Watch for twenty years!”

“Almost twenty,” Riler Myle corrected him. “I’ve still got family in the Neck but I don’t care to return.”

Jon nodded slowly, taking out Sansa’s letter and opening it, “The Queen says that men may choose to take up farming in the North if they wish. I don’t believe that those who leave the Night’s Watch will be expected to return to where they came from.”

“I don’t know nothing about farms,” Darrin Hill replied uneasily. "I was born near Seaguard, where the Lord Commander’s brother is Lord Mallister. Me and mum lived in a room at the back of the tavern where she worked. I helped in the kitchen.”

“I don’t know all of the details of the queen’s proposal, but I expect that you can find a place for yourself in the North, farm or not,” Jon responded.

“Well that would settle me then,” Darrin replied. “How about you, Riler? The North’s a pretty big place you wouldn’t have to go to the Neck if you decide to leave the Wall.”

“I don’t know. Thought I’d spend my life at the Wall. Never let myself think otherwise,” Riler said rather tersely. Jon recognized the signs of a man with long practice at keeping his emotions on a short leash.

“And what about you, little crow?” Tormund asked. “When the choice was the Wall or the Wildlings, there was only one sensible choice to make. But if your freedom is restored, where will you go?”

“To Winterfell,” Jon answered simply.

“I thought as much. And I’m glad. Your red-haired cousin wants you back by her side and you can’t get there soon enough,” Tormund observed wryly.

“But I thought that Queen Sansa was your sister. Your half-sister. You’re her father’s bastard, Ned Stark’s son, are you not?” Darrin asked.

Jon sighed and paused before responding. Then he squared his shoulders and looked steadily at Darrin. “That is what we all believed when I was growing up. But the truth is that Ned Stark was my uncle. I’m the son of his sister, Lyanna, and Rhaegar Targaryen. Ned Stark claimed me as his own to hide me from the wrath of Robert Baratheon.”

“His best friend,” Riler Myle noted.

“Aye. Robert grieved so for Lyanna and hated the Targaryens so much for killing her that my uncle feared he’d kill me if he knew who my father really was.”

The four men sat in silence for a moment. Then Riler Myle asked the question Jon was dreading, “So the Dragon Queen was your aunt?”

Jon’s face was grim. “Aye, she was.”

“And you knew that when you killed her?”

“Yes, I did.”

“She’d just burned an entire city to the ground. It sounds like you did the right thing - mayhap some folks would only fault you for not doing it sooner,” Riler observed.

Jon nodded gratefully in response.

“What was she like, the Dragon Queen?” Darrin asked.

Jon and Tormund exchanged a look. Tormund turned to Darrin, “The Dragon Queen? She was a beautiful young woman, wore her silver hair in braids and curls, wore fancy clothes and thought everyone was beneath her. She had three dragons! Then two, after the Night King took one. She flew her dragons north to help defend Winterfell from the Army of the Dead and you should have seen them flying. Our boy here rode the other one! Did you know then that you were a Targaryen?” Tormund asked, although he already knew the answer.

“Aye,” Jon replied, playing along.

“And after the Battle of Winterfell the Dragon Queen couldn’t leave fast enough for King’s Landing. Not a moment to spare for her men to recover their strength, not when her Iron Throne awaited. If I’d had a moment’s doubt about whether it could be a good thing to live under a king or queen, the Dragon Queen cured me of it. She had fire-breathing dragons but her heart was as cold as the heart of winter. She expected loyalty and love from everyone but had no thought for anyone but herself. When she left Winterfell everyone sighed with relief. And I knew that if she got her throne, Winterfell wouldn’t be far enough away from her. We left soon after to make our way back north.”

Darrin and Riler looked impressed by Tormund’s indictment of the Dragon Queen, who was already known throughout Westeros as an unprecedented villain, a woman so evil and monstrous that her deeds undid centuries of Targaryen hagiography and overshadowed any good deeds her ancestors had done. The Targaryen name had become a curse in Westeros.

Jon Snow didn’t contradict Tormund on any point, adding, “she’d been taught her whole life that Targaryens were better than other men and that Westeros was theirs to rule. After her brother was killed she thought herself the last of her kind. And then she got three dragons. And as far as I could tell those dragons and the Iron Throne were the only things that mattered to her. I think she was very lonely. Tormund is right, she wanted everyone’s love and loyalty, but she had no idea of how to earn either. All she knew was intimidation. And her pride and her arrogance and her cruelty made her loathsome. She’d thought to be good, I think she genuinely believed she was doing things for the right reasons. But the truth is, she was a monster who didn’t hesitate to kill an entire city in her rush to seize what she wanted. It didn’t matter how many people died, because to her they weren’t really people. She truly thought she was the only one who mattered, because she was the only one who had a dragon.”

After another quiet moment, Darrin asked “She lost one dragon to the Night King, but I heard she destroyed King’s Landing with just one dragon. What happened to the other one?”

Jon replied, “After she lost one to the Night King she brought the other two with her to Winterfell. I rode Rhaegal in the Battle of Winterfell, and he was injured in the fighting so that he couldn’t fly as strongly. He was still healing when the Dragon Queen set out for Kings Landing, and Euron Greyjoy shot him out of the sky with a weapon designed to kill dragons. I don’t know if Rhaegal would have been hit if he hadn’t been flying low, which was all he could manage in his condition.”

“Too bad Euron Greyjoy didn’t kill both dragons that day,” Riler remarked.

Jon shook his head in rueful amusement, “Yes, too bad,” he agreed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maester Taras contemplates the fate of the Wall

Maester Taras stood at the top of the Wall, looking out over the vast woodlands that lay to the North. He had yet to tire of coming up here to marvel at the sheer scale of the Wall. Its construction fascinated him, and he devoted many hours to reading the records kept by Castle Black’s builders. 

He’d been at the Wall only a few weeks when the Lord Commander had asked if he cared to see the destruction wrought by the Night King’s dragon at the eastern end. The sight of the broken Wall was wrenching - Taras was surprised to find tears in his eyes. Huge slabs of broken ice projected jaggedly into the air. 

The worst of winter had lifted when the Night King was killed, followed by a spring that lingered for many months. Taras had arrived at the Wall just as summer was fully settling into the North, and the effects of the thaw were evident at the eastern-most, broken end of the Wall, with drops of water starting to form on the edges of the ice in the afternoon sun. But Taras noted that the ice of the Wall - even the broken pieces - was very slow to melt. The ice of the Wall withstood heat much better than the thick slabs of ice that the Ibbenese harvested from the Shivering Sea to sell in the Free Cities and Summer Islands, although it was not completely impervious to the sun. 

Taras didn’t believe the Wall could be fully restored; this belief was shared by Juran Burley, the laconic First Builder who’d spent the last twenty-five years working on the Wall. The Night’s Watch builders knew how to repair relatively small patches of the Wall that were damaged, but the Night King had blasted it down to its foundation, exposing patches of bare rock that hadn’t seen daylight in thousands of years. A small portion of the Wall remained standing between the gaping hole and the sea; Juran feared that it would not remain standing for long.

Following convention, Taras had taken the Night’s Watch vows shortly after arriving at Castle Black. There was a bit of confusion over where he should pledge himself, and under the auspices of which gods. As far as anyone knew he was the first Summer Islander to join the Night’s Watch. His own people’s religion celebrated life and love, male _and_ female, and although he was not at all devout, he did not think the gods of his people would be pleased to be invoked in a vow of austere masculine celibacy on a frozen landscape. He’d never been drawn to the faith of The Seven that held sway in the southern half of Westeros, which left the old gods of the North, about which he knew very little. But they seemed the most fitting to the location and calling, and so Taras had made his vow under a heart tree that grew north of the Wall. He soon came to regret that he hadn’t tried to postpone doing so for a little while.

Between what he’d read and conversations with Castle Black’s builders, Taras came to understand that only men who’d sworn their lives to the Wall could work the ice to make repairs, or dig tunnels that didn’t immediately collapse. While the fire god R’hllor thrived on a constant diet of living blood sacrifices to his flames, whatever magic had been woven into the ice of the Wall seemed to merely require commitment of lives, rather than consumption. With his Citadel-trained mind, Taras would have liked to test this hypothesis, but since he’d already made his vow of commitment to the Wall, there was no way to know now whether his own ability to make small repairs to the ice was simply a learned skill (although there wasn’t really that much skill to learn) or something that his vow had enabled. He suspected it was the latter, but couldn’t know for sure.

It occurred to Taras that the builders’ connection to the Wall might be deeper and stronger than the other Night’s Watch men, who merely lived on it. Of the twenty men who’d chosen to return to the Wall after being offered a release from their vows, twelve were builders. In fact although Juran’s predecessor as First Builder, Othell Yarwyk, had perished at Winterfell, all of the surviving builders had opted to return to the Wall, while most of the rangers and stewards who’d survived the Battle of Winterfell had chosen to seek new lives elsewhere. 

With so few men and no need to watch for threats from the north, the Night’s Watch kept a skeletal crew at the top of the Wall these days - besides Taras, at the moment there were three men atop, who spent the majority of their time playing cards in the warming shed. It was a thus an excellent place to be alone, and in addition to enjoying the view, Taras appreciated the chance to think uninterrupted. The Queen’s visit the previous week had given the Lord Commander and all of the Night’s Watch much to think about.

_After a shared meal with the Night’s Watch in Castle Black’s main hall, the Queen and her companions had sat down in the Lord Commander’s office with Juran Burley, Tymos Palker the Chief Steward, Taras himself, and of course the Lord Commander. Sansa Stark had begun by asking some pointed questions about the Wall, specifically the destroyed eastern end. She’d visited it herself three months prior and seemed doubtful that it could be restored, although she deferred to the judgement of the Night’s Watch. The Lord Commander had looked inquiringly at Juran, whose grim expression spoke volumes while his actual words were, “Can’t say for sure. But maybe not.”_

_The Queen had then turned to Wylis Manderly, Lord Wyman Manderly’s middle-aged heir and father to green-haired Wylla and her older sister Wynafryd. The Manderlys were the leading merchant family in White Harbor; Taras’s father had done business with them many times. The Manderlys were interested in Eastwatch, which had long been an informal, but surprisingly active, trading spot between sailing merchant ships, the Night’s Watch, Wildlings looking to sell furs, and Ibbenese whaling ships. The Manderlys saw an opportunity to establish a more formal trading port on the site, which would preserve a vital supply line for the Wall while enabling Winterfell to levy tariffs._

_To Taras this seemed like a shrewd notion that could also benefit the Night’s Watch. But he could see the Lord Commander stiffen while Wylis Manderly laid out his idea, and Taras could guess why. The Manderly proposal would take Eastwatch out of the Night’s Watch’s hands and put it under the control of merchants from White Harbor, and the Queen. The Night’s Watch would become visitors in a place that had been theirs for years beyond reckoning._

_The Queen had also observed Lord Commander Mallister’s offended demeanor, and she hastened to reassure them that building a port at Eastwatch was just one possibility, and that any decision would be reached jointly with the Night’s Watch. Lord Wylis bowed and sat down.The Queen had then turned to the Lord Commander and asked if they might speak privately, as she had something else to discuss with him. The others had dutifully filed out of the room._

_Sansa Stark and Lord Commander Mallister had spoken in his office for more than an hour. Eventually the Queen emerged from the office and came down into the courtyard, where Wylla Manderly was participating in an archery contest with the youngest of the Night’s Watch rangers, while many others stood by admiringly._

_Taras had been speaking with Lord Wylis, running through the various merchants, and a few pirates, that they knew in common. Although Lord Wylis was fifteen years his senior and had not ventured on a long sea voyage for many years, and Taras himself had not been on the water for more than a decade, boyhoods spent aboard ships gave them a natural kinship. The Queen joined them just as they had been laughing about the notorious antics of a Tyroshi pirate who’d been infamous twenty years earlier for insisting that the crews of ships he captured learn and sing his favorite ballads._

_The three of them had adjourned to the Great Hall, where they chatted over mugs of Castle Black’s disgusting ale. Taras was still trying to develop a taste for the stuff. Lord Wylis did not seem to mind it at all. Taras watched the Queen as she took a sip, and was impressed by her lack of reaction. She caught him watching her and confessed that this was not her first time drinking the Night’s Watch brew. She then got Taras to speak of his homeland and family, and how his curiosity about mechanical things and natural laws had led him to studying at the Citadel in Oldtown. Wylla and Wynafryd joined them after the archery contest had run its course (Wylla was very good but several of the rangers were better). Both girls gagged on the ale when they first drank it, but were well-bred enough to quickly hide their dislike._

_When the evening meal was ready the great hall filled up with men. There was no sign of the Lord Commander. The Queen sat easily with the men of the Night’s Watch, eating their stew and listening to their stories of working on the Wall, and of their lives before coming to the Wall._

_Denys Mallister had appeared half-way through the meal, and rapped on the head table to call for attention. The men quickly silenced themselves. The Queen had watched the Lord Commander calmly, but Taras had the sense that she wasn’t sure what to expect._

_When he was satisfied that he had all ears, Lord Commander Mallister had begun speaking without preamble. “I’m sure you’re all wondering what brings the Queen in the North to Castle Black. As you know a few weeks ago I received a raven from King's Landing: the Six Kingdoms, led by their king, Brandon Stark, have relinquished all authority over and responsibility for the Wall to the North. And as you also know, the King is certain that the White Walker threat is completely at an end, never to return._

_“This is a good thing, to be sure. And the number of Wildlings who’ve returned to the far north are so few that, even if they were inclined to try something, they are not a credible threat to the safety of Westeros, and will probably not be in our lifetimes._

_“And then there is the Wall itself. Some of you have seen the damage at Eastwatch, all of you know of it. The Wall is broken, and it’s Burley’s and Maester Taras’s opinion that it cannot be fully restored. So the Wall can no longer provide the protection from northern threats as it did for so long. But since there are no threats to the north, the condition of the Wall is neither here nor there."_

_Lord Mallister drew a deep breath. “So what’s to become of the Night’s Watch? We are now entirely dependent upon the North for material support and men. The North is still recovering from years of war, and it has little to spare by way of supplies and no men at all to send to us.” At this the Lord Commander had paused, as the men had started to whisper among themselves. He’d let them go on for a moment, then banged his hand on the table again to command their attention._

_“Our vows are to serve as the shield that guards the realm of men. Many of our brothers, including the late Lord Commander Tollet, died to fulfill that mission. The Great War is over and mankind has won. So what is to become of the Night’s Watch? The Queen has come here with a proposal: we may choose to remain as brothers of the Night’s Watch, adhering to our vows and living as we always have at the Wall. If we do this, Winterfell will support us at the Wall for the duration of our lives. But we shall be the last men of the Night’s Watch - there will be no new recruits.” The Lord Commander had paused again when the men started to whisper and murmur among themselves._

_“However,” he had continued loudly to recapture their attention. “However … HOWEVER! Do me the courtesy of listening and hold your tongues until I’ve finished! The Queen is offering other choices: the North is in sore need of men to work the land, as farmers or woodsmen. There is need of men in the towns too. And the Queen has a need for soldiers. The last few years have taken a heavy toll on the North’s menfolk. So any man of the Night’s Watch who wishes to be released from his vows will be released, provided I agree to it. I can say that I will for nearly all of you, and I will speak privately with those I might not. For those who’d like to be released from their vows, but choose to stay here at the Wall, they might do so as Stark soldiers, and be free to give up soldiering when they choose, just like any other soldier."_

_“What will you do, Lord Commander?” one of the men had called out._

_“Miltar Serret, I might have known you’d be the first to run off at the mouth,” Lord Mallister had observed sourly. “To be honest I haven’t yet made up my mind. I’ve been a man of the Night’s Watch for nearly forty years. It’s difficult to imagine anything else. But there’s no denying that our circumstances are greatly changed.”_

_“I know that I’ll be happy to leave the Night’s Watch!” another man had cried._

_“I’m not even a bit surprised to hear that, Chrass Flint” Lord Mallister had retorted. “No one is going to be released from their vows just yet. There is still much to be considered, and it’s a decision we must all make together. Which is not to say that we must all make the same choice. But this is a grave matter for our ancient brotherhood, and so it must be settled by all of us, together. Fortunately the recruiters from Oldtown and Sunspear returned yesterday, and we expect those from the Riverlands to return any day now. I’m going to send for the garrison at Shadow Tower to join us here at Castle Black in a week’s time._

_“So that’s all, men. For now. In the meantime let us thank the Queen in the North for her consideration, and for making the journey up here from Winterfell to speak with us in person. She could have just sent a letter or an envoy; but she came here herself out of the respect that she holds for the Night’s Watch. The Starks were ever our truest friends, and we’ve counted many of them amongst our ranks. A toast then, to Queen Sansa Stark, who has honored us today with her presence. To the Queen!”_

_“To the Queen!” chorused the men of the Night’s Watch, tankards lifted._

_Sansa Stark had risen and bowed her head to the Lord Commander. “It is you who honor me with your welcome, Lord Commander Mallister. And it was not so long ago that the Night’s Watch sheltered me when I was fleeing a forced marriage to an evil man. As the Lord Commander said, Stark men have often been in the Night’s Watch, most recently my uncle, Benjen Stark, and my cousin, Jon Snow.” Her last words triggered a new bout of whispering among some of the men, but she did not give any indication that she’d noticed as she concluded, “It is my solemn duty to ensure that the Night’s Watch is treated fairly, with the honor and dignity your service and sacrifices merit. Whatever you decide, know that you will not be forgotten. The North remembers.”_

_“The North remembers!” a young Northman had shouted from the back of the room. The room erupted in laughter and applause, and then the men of the Night’s Watch finished their meals. When they were done, some left the hall, while others stayed to set up card games or dice._

_Sansa Stark had turned to Lord Commander Mallister and asked, “Lord Mallister, what can you tell me of my cousin, Jon Snow? I heard he went north with Tormund Giantsbane and the rest of the Wildlings, but I know nothing more. Is there anything you can tell me?”_

_Lord Commander Mallister had shaken his head. “Our rangers report that he’s been seen at Ruddy Hall, Giantsbane’s home. More than that I cannot say, Your Grace.” He paused for a moment, and added, “I suppose I should summon him to come join our convening, seeing as he is once again supposedly a member of the Night’s Watch.”_

_Sansa Stark had regarded Mallister intently, “You will not pursue him for desertion?”_

_Denys Mallister had glanced at those nearby, giving the impression that this was a sensitive topic. Besides Maester Taras, only Juran Burley was within earshot. Satisfied, Mallister had replied in a low voice, “No, Your Grace, I will not. The sentence was a joke, and he never took the vow. All of Westeros owes that man a debt and instead he’s had to retreat to live amongst the Wildling savages. It’s a disgrace!”_

_At that point Maester Taras had broken in to point out that the two rangers who patrolled the Haunted Forest had just returned, and were in the Hall. The Lord Commander had summoned them to the head table, and asked if they knew the whereabouts of Jon Snow. They’d affirmed that they’d spotted him, from a distance, at Ruddy Hall two months earlier. Lord Commander Mallister then told them that as soon as they and their horses were rested he’d be sending them with a letter for Jon Snow._

_When the Queen rose from the table to retire for the evening, she’d asked Maester Taras if he could provide some paper and ink for a letter she needed to write. The Lord Commander had retired shortly after the Queen left._

_Upon delivering the requested paper, ink, and a quill into the hands of Wyndafryd Manderly in Castle Black’s guest house, Taras had returned to the great hall and resumed his earlier conversation with Lord Wylis about their seafaring days. Lord Wylis had asked him if he’d ever observed how the Ibbenese whalers would use sea ice to keep their catch from spoiling before they got to port. Taras had not, but he had seen Ibbenese traders selling slabs of sea ice in the Free Cities. By packing the ice carefully in sawdust, and sailing swiftly without stopping elsewhere, sea ice could even be brought to the Summer Islands - although by then the slabs were shrunken, and they did not last more than a day or two in the heat. The Ibbenese traders nevertheless were able to charge exorbitant prices for something that was otherwise never seen in the Summer Islands._

_“Is that why you came here, the chance to have as much ice as anyone could ever want?" Lord Wylis had teased._

Taras reached out to touch the ice of the Wall, an inkling forming in his mind. He stepped up to the edge and looked down the north face of the Wall - a dizzying height even for someone like him, an agile climber untroubled by high places. _So much ice._ The idea became clearer. 

Half a mile off to the north, three riders emerged from the trees, accompanied by a large white dog. As Taras caught sight of them the maester smiled, and then hurried to the pulley lift to return to the castle below. He said nothing to guards on duty about the riders he’d spotted - they’d make themselves known soon enough. He hoped to reach Lord Mallister quickly to share his idea, because he had a feeling that once the riders arrived at the gate, the Lord Commander’s attention would be on other matters.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon sets out for Winterfell

Three days after arriving at Castle Black in the company of the two rangers sent to fetch him, Jon rode south for Winterfell, this time accompanied by Castle Black’s intriguing new maester. The tall, elegant Summer Islander with smooth, chestnut-colored skin stood out immediately among the weedy lot of the Night’s Watch, but Jon was discovering that the man’s intelligence and perception were unusually keen as well. He was, however, not a very skilled rider. 

Maester Taras Qoqu noticed Jon’s appraising glance, and offered with a rueful smile, “You may have noticed that my horsemanship is poor. I grew up on ships, you see, and did not have a horse of my own until I arrived in Oldtown when I was eighteen.”

“Are there no horses in the Summer Islands?” Jon asked, surprised.

“Oh of course, although they are not native, and are not as common as donkeys and water buffalo for transport. Jhala in particular is very warm for horses, and they are prone to several diseases which are fatal to all but the heartiest. Wealthy men often keep horses on Jhala, but their sons are often not allowed to touch them.”

Jon nodded. The maester had revealed that he came from wealth but Jon didn’t know how to ask about it without being offensive. Despite his new-found resolve to not default to silence when he felt discomfort, silence seemed better than needlessly offending his travel companion.

“And now you’re at the Wall. I can’t imagine why you accepted the posting. When I left the Wall - the first time I left the Wall - I’d first thought to go somewhere warm, somewhere that didn’t know winter.”

Maester Taras replied easily. “We often seek what is novel. I will not pretend that I do not occasionally miss my home. My family, primarily, and the food. Oh and the music! And I do miss the sea. But I do not miss the heat, I tell you. Lord Commander Mallister is quite certain that I’ll not last more than one winter at the Wall, and of course I cannot yet prove him wrong. But I think I will. I found the heat of Jhala unbearable and was always eager to get back on one of my father’s ships, to breathe sea breezes and travel to places that were cooler than Jhala. I went to Braavos at least ten times, to King’s Landing a handful of times, and even to White Harbor twice. I loved the northern places the best. And so far I am happy to be at the Wall.

Jon looked at him in frank amazement. “I think you’re the first man I’ve encountered who was happy to be at the Wall.”

The maester smiled and shrugged. “I am aware that I have unusual predispositions. Were you always unhappy at the Wall? I understood that first you’d come as a volunteer, which is rather rare these days for a well-born young man.”

Jon considered the question before replying, “The Night’s Watch was not what I’d expected it to be. My uncle, Benjen Stark, was First Ranger at Castle Black. He occasionally came to Winterfell with messages from the Lord Commander for my fa- for the uncle who raised me, Ned Stark. I greatly admired Uncle Benjen, and the Starks, like many Northern families, still held the Night’s Watch in high esteem - at least in theory. So I was surprised to find that most of my brothers at Castle Black were not men like my uncle Benjen, but were uneducated farm boys from families with too many mouths to feed, or orphans. Or criminals. My upbringing in Winterfell hadn’t prepared me to be a good comrade and brother to such men, despite being a bastard.”

Maester Taras nodded thoughtfully. “I’m aware of the stigma that attaches in Westeros to being born outside of a sanctioned marriage. If I understand your situation correctly, you grew up believing that Ned Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, was your father, when in truth he was your uncle. Who did you think your mother was?”

Jon grimaced, “I didn’t know. My uncle refused to tell me anything about her. Once I got to the Wall Uncle Benjen promised to tell me about my mother when he returned from his ranging mission. But he never did return. So I went a few more years without knowing the truth about who my parents really were.”

Maester Taras shook his head. “Family secrets can be dangerous things. My own parents have had a happy marriage that produced six healthy children. But my father’s sister has not been so fortunate: she had to go into hiding with her twin sons, who were just babes at the time, because her husband had grown violent. My father and another of his sisters hunted the man down and dispatched him. My aunt came to live in our compound with her sons, but she always told my cousins that their father had drowned in a shipwreck, not wanting them to know the truth. When they were older and did find out what had happened, they were very angry with everyone. They left Jhala and as far as I know they haven’t returned.

Jon replied pensively, “That sounds like a very difficult situation. Your aunt was lucky to have family that would take care of her as yours did.”

The maester shrugged, “That is how it is in the Summer Islands. Extended families live together in large houses, or very near to each other. And so everyone minds everyone else’s business. As with many things, family is often both a blessing and a curse. In my family, for me, the blessings outweighed the curses. If only Jhala weren’t so hot!”

Jon smiled, “That sounds nice. I’d like to visit the Summer Islands sometime.”

“If you ever decide to go, I hope you will allow me to make introductions so that you will go not as a stranger, but as an honored guest,” Taras replied earnestly.

“That’s very kind of you, Maester Taras.”

“Not at all. You are the Hero of the North! My kin would be most displeased if I didn’t send you their way should you travel to the Summer Islands.”

Jon shook his head, “I don’t know about that. I’m not the one who killed the Night King: that was my sister, Arya. I wanted to help the North but all I managed to do was bring dragons here - two that breathed hot fire and one that breathed deadly cold flames.”

Taras nodded, “I saw the destruction the Night King’s dragon did at the Wall.”

“I rode out to see it myself six months ago. Even though I knew what had happened, even though I saw the Night King’s dragon and was nearly killed by it, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw what had happened at Eastwatch.”

Taras sighed, “It was a tragic thing. But good might come of it yet. Broken or not, the Wall’s original purpose is gone now. You know what your cousin the Queen has proposed to members of the Night’s Watch, and most of the men will likely leave, if yesterday’s meeting is anything to judge by.”

Jon nodded, “I can’t blame them. I didn’t stay once I got the chance to leave.”

“No, nor can I. What would be the point for most of them? Men leading lonely lives without purpose are likely to sink into despair. I can’t help but wonder if what seems so obvious to us now would have been so if the Wall were still whole and intact. It is such a magnificent structure, one of the greatest things ever built by man. Perhaps the greatest thing ever built. Even with the Night King gone and the Wildlings so diminished, would anyone have considered giving the men of the Night’s Watch their freedom if the Wall wasn’t broken?”

Jon raised his eyebrows, surprised by the thought. “I don’t know, hadn’t thought of it that way. But my cousin Sansa is the one who’s giving the Night’s Watch choices about how and where they’ll live out their lives.”

The Maester looked over at Jon with an enigmatic smile “That is true. And perhaps she would have wanted the men of the Night’s Watch to be freed from their vows regardless of the state of the Wall.”

Jon instinctively bristled but realized quickly that the maester’s arch remark was intended to gently tease, not offend. And so he lapsed into silence, forgetting for the moment his resolution to not do so.

The last few days had been nothing short of astonishing. For some reason Riler and Darrin’s easy acceptance of him hadn’t made him realize that his reputation at Castle Black might not be as bad as he’d assumed. When he’d ridden through the gate with the two rangers, he’d expected to be met by a human wall of cold faces and accusatory eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time he was the most hated man at Castle Black. But instead, Lord Commander Denys Mallister had been on hand to welcome him back, as “an honorary brother, and a Northern hero!” And the rest of the men appeared to take their cues from the Lord Commander. 

Jon was nonplussed: although Darrin hadn’t known about his true parentage, it seemed that everyone else at Castle Black did. And they all knew that he’d killed the Dragon Queen. But no one threw words like “kinslayer” or “oathbreaker” at him, even though he would have agreed with them. Even though he would have done it again. Even though his biggest regret was that he hadn’t done it sooner.

He’d been too slow to act, and thousands of innocent people had died as a result of his failure to act sooner. His stupidity had given the Night King the means to invade the North with an army out of anyone’s worst nightmare. Yet the Night’s Watch celebrated him for saving the North and the rest of Westeros. When he’d brought the Wildlings south of the Wall to safety, he’d known he was doing the right thing. Every bone in his body knew that it was necessary. For doing that they’d killed him as a traitor. But now he was celebrated as a hero, even though countless thousands had died because of him. And he’d killed his aunt with a knife to the heart.

Once on the road to Winterfell he again grew apprehensive about how he’d be received. He knew that Sansa would welcome him with open arms, a prospect that was worth enduring suspicion and hatred from however many people wanted to hate him. Sansa was the single most important thing in his life, as she had been since she showed up at Castle Black two and a half years earlier. Now he was able to acknowledge that to himself without feeling like a horrible deviant. The irony was that although he knew now that his feelings for Sansa didn’t make him a deviant, he also knew that he was completely unworthy of her. No longer a bastard half-brother, he was instead a disgraced, dishonorable cousin with the blood of thousands on his hands. But Sansa was willing to embrace him as her brother, if he wished. With Arya it wouldn’t have been a question - he always was and always would be her brother. He’d never felt brotherly towards Sansa, they’d been distant as children, and when they’d reunited at Castle Black, she'd started haunting his dreams, despite his attempts to quell those thoughts. No, she’d never been a sister to him. But _she_ could view _him_ as a brother, if that was her wish. 

Whether her brother or her cousin he’d have to watch as she married someone else, bore his children, loved and laughed with him. Jon reckoned that the pain it would cause him would be some form of atonement for his mistakes - not wholly adequate, but not easy to endure. In returning to Winterfell, he’d fulfill the one vow he’d never broken, and never would: to protect Sansa and keep her safe from anyone who thought to harm her. He’d cling to that shred of his tattered honor, no matter what it cost him. He shook himself out of this thoughts and looked over at his companion.

“About another mile down the road there’s a good spot to make camp for the night,” he said to the maester. “And from there, if we’re back in the saddle tomorrow soon after sun-up, we should be at Winterfell by noon.”

“This sounds like an excellent plan,” the maester replied.

“I’m glad to have your company, Maester Taras,” Jon said earnestly. “I’m sorry if I’m not myself the best companion. I was never much for conversation and I’ve spent a long time alone the past year. I’ve fallen out of the habit a bit.”

“Not at all, when you do speak you have interesting things to say,” the maester replied kindly. “Endless chatter for the sake of it can be wearying.”

Jon smiled a bit and nodded. “In that case I don’t recommend you should ever spend time in the company of the Hand of the Six Kingdoms. You’d grow tired of Tyrion Lannister quickly.”

The maester nodded in agreement. “The man does not have a good reputation in Oldtown. Neither Hightower nor the Citadel deem him trustworthy. He is a confessed kinslayer and was a key ally of the Dragon Queen when she burned King’s Landing.”

Jon’s smile disappeared. ‘So was I.”

Taras looked at him consideringly, “But you redeemed yourself by killing your aunt and putting an end to her reign of terror. How many more would she have gone on to kill if you had not?”

Jon nodded, “Yes, that’s what many people say. And I knew it too. But in the moment that I killed her, she wasn’t threatening anyone. Without her dragon she was a completely defenseless woman, with no fighting skills whatsoever.”

Taras looked thoughtful when Jon glanced over to gauge his reaction. After a moment the maester ventured, “This weighs on you, I think. The idea that you chose to kill someone in a moment when she was vulnerable, and not a threat to anyone. If you’d managed to kill her last dragon instead, what do you think would have become of her?”

Surprised, Jon didn’t have an answer right away. “Well … without her dragon, she was nothing really. Well, not nothing. But far from invincible. She still commanded a few thousand Unsullied troops - they are excellent fighters and they were completely loyal to her. And she still had a few hundred Dothraki riders, who are also formidable foes. But … I believe the Dothraki only followed her because her dragons made her the strongest person in the world, equaled by none. If I’d killed her last dragon, I’m not sure that the Dothraki would have continued to follow her. But even if they did stay loyal, the army Sansa was raising in the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands would have been enough to defeat her armies I think.”

“And how many more people would have died in that fighting?” Taras asked.

Jon shook his head, “Thousands, easily.”

“And when her fighters were defeated or fled, what would have happened to her?”

“If she’d not been killed in the fighting? If she were captured, she’d have been executed. Or lynched by an angry crowd.”

“Yes, because what she did was beyond terrible, by any moral standard. Her dragon was a weapon. A living weapon. And of course it’s no small thing to kill a dragon. You very well might just have been killed yourself if you’d tried. It seems to me that as long as she had control of a dragon, even if she wasn’t killing someone in the moment, it was just a matter of time before she did it again. She had done it so many times before. Taras paused and then asked, quietly “Are you aware of the Dragon Queen’s deeds before she arrived in Westeros?”

Jon sighed, and replied, “She freed the slaves in the cities of Mereen, Astapor, and Yunkai. I imagine these were not bloodless revolutions.”

“No, no they were not. I could not say how many were killed but they numbered in the thousands by the time she left. What I can tell you is what my father heard from his cousin, who visited Slaver’s Bay perhaps eighteen months ago. My father shared the story in a letter, because he was anxious that I should leave Westeros if the Dragon Queen made her way there. I can tell you that I was not the only one in Oldtown who’d thought to book passage on a ship. In the end I did not, but we were all eyeing Dragonstone with misgiving. And when we heard that King’s Landing was burned, several hundred people, at least, did leave Oldtown. Because it was several more days before we learned that the Dragon Queen was dead, and her last dragon gone from Westeros. 

“Let me tell you what my father’s cousin saw in Slaver’s Bay: Astapor and Yunkai were both fully back in the hands of the Masters, and unlucky slaves, many of whom were newly captured and had not participated in the revolts the Dragon Queen instigated, were treated far more harshly than had been the rule in earlier times: always chained, with spies planted among them who reported on any untoward words. They were quick to maim and even execute slaves they suspected might try to resist them, calculating that the loss of a slave or reduction in the slave’s labor was worth ensuring that the slaves never dared to rise again against the masters.”

“That is unfortunate,” Jon said, “although I don’t think any of that can be blamed on the Dragon Queen herself.”

“Oh no, you are right of course. I simply tell you so that you should know that her liberation of Slaver’s Bay was no such thing, or at least not something that lasted even a year. In the long run her “revolution” increased the suffering of the people who already suffered the most. And I cannot tell you anything about what life was like in Meereen. My father’s cousin took the advice of other merchants and did not go to Meereen. The tales I’ve heard cannot be verified, for I’ve not met anyone with first-hand knowledge. But they all describe a destroyed city full of starving, diseased people who are at the mercy of strong-men, marauders, and pirates.”

“Long-term planning was not one of her strengths,” Jon remarked.

Taras raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. Jon laughed.

“Her dragons were her strength,” said Taras. “Her dragons were why people followed her, why they believed in her. Her dragons were her weapon. Tell me, if a man took a bow and a quiver of arrows, and climbed a tower overlooking a busy city market, and then started shooting arrows at the market-goers - at women and children, as well as armed men, what would justice look like once he’d run out of arrows and was captured?”

“Such a man should be hanged,” Jon said.

“But by the time he was apprehended he’d run out of arrows and could no longer harm anyone,” Taras persisted.

“Wouldn’t matter - he’d already killed and wounded a dozen or more innocent people,” Jon replied. “He’d be a murderer, and the penalty for murder is hanging.”

“Yes, just so,” Taras agreed. “Now imagine a man very skilled with knives - stabbing, slashing, throwing. This man goes into the marketplace and starts to use his knives to kill people indiscriminately. Women, children. Everyone runs in terror, there’s no on on hand who can disarm him or kill him. After many minutes of chasing and wounding and killing market-goers, this man finds himself very thirsty, so he stops at an abandoned wineseller’s stall and sets down his knives so that he can pick up a cask of wine to drink from. In that moment, a young man steals up behind him and stabs him in the back, killing him. Do you think the young man was wrong to attack when the killer's guard was down and his weapons weren’t in hand?”

Jon knew where this was going. “No. Because the wine-drinking killer had only paused in his rampage to quench his thirst. If he hadn’t been killed first he might well have resumed killing after he’d drunk his fill.”

“Just so,” Maester Taras agreed. “The Dragon Queen did not use arrows or knives. She used her dragon and her soldiers to kill people. Just because you came upon her when her weapons were not to hand doesn’t mean she was harmless in that moment. Killers cannot afford to let down their guard for even a moment, because they’ve made it necessary for others to kill them. When you are a killer there are no quiet moments.”

“I do see your point, Maester Taras,” Jon said. ‘But I’m still not sure that there wasn’t another way. I didn’t see one at the time and I didn’t dare risk her attacking more people.”

‘I was not there. I cannot tell you that what you did was right, or not right. I cannot _know_ that, only you can. But what I do know is that the people of Oldtown, the maesters in the Citadel, and the men of the Night’s Watch believe you did the right thing. I believe you did the right thing. That might not make it easier to bear. But the fact that your conscience suffers so tells me that you are perhaps a better man than you realize. I know men who have done dreadful things that they explained away, telling themselves and others that they had good reasons for what they did. They looked to excuse themselves. Such men are dishonorable because they do not accept responsibility for their deeds, which good men must do, no matter how difficult.”

Jon was silent for the next several minutes. They arrived at the spot where he’d intended to set up camp, and Maester Taras followed his example in tying up his horse to a low branch, with enough lead to graze easily. While the maester built a fire, Jon headed to a rushing stream a few hundred paces away to see if he could catch some fish to accompany the hardtack and cheese they had in their saddlebags. As he sat down beside the stream with his fishing line, a flash of white in some nearby bushes caught his eye. A moment later Ghost emerged from the underbrush and padded over to sit next to him. Jon reached up to scratch behind the direwolf’s ears.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa awaits Jon at Winterfell

The Queen in the North habitually rose with the sun, and could often be found working in her office well after the sun had set, even during the longer days of summer. There was just always so much work to be done.

Upon her return to the North after the great council in King’s Landing, the first thing Sansa had set about doing was establishing a network of advisers. Although Yohn Royce and the Knights of the Vale had departed Winterfell with Jon and the Northern forces he’d pledged to the Dragon Queen’s bid for the Iron Throne, they’d parted ways with the Northern host when they reached the borders of the Vale. Yohn Royce had sworn no vow to the Dragon Queen and had no intention of getting caught up in her war. Sansa had come to rely on Lord Royce’s council but his true place was with her young cousin, Robert Arryn.

She’d asked Brienne of Tarth to stay with her younger brother when he’d been named King of the Six Kingdoms. Bran had seemed indifferent to who was appointed to his Small Council, having only requested Samwell Tarly to serve as his maester (despite his lack of a maester’s chain) and Tyrion Lannister to serve as his Hand. Sansa was very doubtful about Bran’s choice of Hand, for although she found Tyrion to be congenial company, she didn’t trust him at all. And so she’d persuaded Brienne that her duty to Catelyn Stark was to serve and protect her son (in part by keeping an eye on his Hand).

But after more than a year of shared dangers, trials, triumphs, and despair, Sansa and Brienne had formed a bond that was almost sisterly. _Almost_ because Sansa wasn’t entirely sure what a sisterly bond truly felt like. Her own sister was someone she loved, trusted without question, and admired enormously. And yet, although she and Arya had come to understand and respect each other, Arya tended to avoid discussing personal things. Sansa missed talking with Brienne. But she took comfort from their regular exchange of letters.

She was thankful that Maester Wolkan remained in Winterfell. The man's innate kindness had been a furtive comfort during the dreadful months of her marriage to Ramsay Bolton.

_Several days into their marriage, after Ramsay had delivered a particularly brutal beating and had then gone out hunting for the day, Roose Bolton had instructed Maester Wolkan to go to Sansa’s chamber to tend to her wounds. When the maester sent Theon – Reek – to fetch hot water and clean bandages, leaving the two of them briefly alone in the room, Sansa had asked the maester if he could provide her with moon tea. She would not bear Ramsay Bolton’s child. She could not bear to imagine what he’d do to the child if she did._

_The maester had looked at her gravely and nodded. He was silent as he tended her wounds under Theon’s watchful eye, when he’d finished he gave a small bow and left without a word, followed by Theon. An hour after he’d left her chamber, he returned with Theon, who was bearing a tray with a steaming bowl of broth. As Theon set the tray down, the maester groped in his robe for a sachet of healing herbs to add to the broth. Sighing, he sent Theon to fetch it from the kitchen where, apparently, he’d mistakenly left it. When the door had closed and they’d heard Theon shuffling away, the maester withdrew a small burlap sac from a hidden pocket in his robe and whispered, “Quickly, find a place to hide this. Two pinches in a mug of hot water or broth every day until you bleed, then start again five days later whether or not you’re still bleeding. I won’t be able to replace it if it’s confiscated.”_

_Sansa had gaped at him, panicked. He strode over to her wardrobe and threw it open. Ramsay's mistress, Myranda, had taken most of Sansa’s dresses for herself, despite being several inches shorter and without the sewing skills she’d need to refit them. But she hadn’t touched the three pairs of boots Sansa had brought with her, since they were also too big for Myranda to wear. Sansa picked up a boot and the maester thrust the burlap down to the toe and tossed the boot back into the wardrobe. Sansa quickly shut the door, and reseated herself on the bed. The maester positioned himself by the chamber door, his face resuming its usual impassive mask. When they heard Theon’s shuffling steps approaching the door, the maester re-opened it without a word. Taking the sachet Theon handed him, he dumped its contents into the cooling broth, stirred it with a spoon, and handed it to Sansa. “Please drink this. It will quicken your healing and it may also help you get with child. That would please Lord Ramsay.” Sansa took the bowl, drank the broth down, and thanked the maester saying, “I’d like nothing more than to have a child.” They avoided looking at each other, or at Theon._

_Sansa had managed to surreptitiously consume the prescribed amount of moon tea each day. Ramsay had been displeased that his father had sent the maester to his wife, and so she had not seen Wolkan again until after she and Jon had re-taken Winterfell. The man knew well how to not draw attention to himself, which was how he’d managed to survive living in the Bolton household._

Sansa had not forgotten Maester Wolkan’s kindness and his willingness to risk his safety to help her. She’d persuaded Jon that they should retain the maester, and had not regretted doing so. The maester was a quiet, compassionate, and shrewdly intelligent man, who’d been able to advise about everything from building repair to animal husbandry. And where his expertise ended he was quick to consult with fellow maesters around the country - he kept a wide correspondence. When spring arrived in the North, and with it planting time, Maester Wolkan had suggested that the North might benefit from agricultural expertise. With Sansa’s approval he’d written to the Citadel to seek the advice of an older maester he knew there, who’d spent twenty-five years researching things like soil enrichment and methods of crop rotation. As it turned out, Maester Davith Woolfield hailed from Ramsgate and was a cousin of Wylis Manderly’s wife, Leonora. He was happy to come to the North to advise its population about optimal farming practices. They were already starting to see some benefit in the lands they’d managed to till.

The depleted population was a genuine problem, and offering farmland to men willing and able to farm it had been Sansa’s idea. Maester Wolkan had spread the word through his network of maesters, and Sansa had written to her cousin, Robert Arryn, and to her uncle, Edmure Tully, advising them that if they knew of families with second or third sons who might prosper on land of their own, they could send them to Winterfell. More than a dozen young men, and three young families, had come so far.

The proposal she’d brought to Lord Commander Mallister had begun as Wyman Manderly’s brainchild. The opportunity to establish a port at Eastwatch was enticing to the most prominent merchant in White Harbor. And as they’d discussed the plan, Sansa saw another opportunity, one which, if it worked, could also help solve the North’s sore need for men to work the land. 

The Manderlys had presented themselves at Winterfell in time for Sansa’s coronation. She’d known them since her girlhood - her mother had been friends with Wyman Manderly’s daugher-in-law, Leonora. She and Wylla were the same age, Wynafryd just a year older. She’d enjoyed playing with the Manderly girls when she was a child, and was pleased to renew the friendship.

Even before her coronation, Wyman Manderly and his son Wylis had sought a private audience with her. They’d both knelt before her, the elder Manderly with great difficulty due to his enormous size and arthritic knees. But he’d done it, and while kneeling he’d begged for Sansa’s forgiveness for not answering the call she and Jon had made when they were rallying the North to overthrow the Boltons. Wyman Manderly explained that Wylis had been a Lannister prisoner since before the Red Wedding, and he’d feared to do anything that would have endangered his son’s life. Sansa knew what it was like to be a hostage who was punished for her kin’s deeds. She forgave them and bade them to rise, and then had to help Lord Wylis hoist his father to his feet.

And from that day, the Manderlys had been among Sansa’s closest advisers. Lord Wyman usually remained in White Harbor. The old man had a keen business sense and widespread commercial connections, not only in Westeros, but in Braavos and Pentos as well. Lord Wylis had inherited his father’s business acumen, as well as his love of food, and was also an experienced soldier, having marched south with Robb and fought in several battles before ending up a Lannister prisoner. At Sansa’s invitation, Lord Wyllis, his wife, Leonora, and their daughters Wynafryd and Wylla had come to stay at Winterfell for months-long stretches. They were very good company and since the Queen could not both run a household and a country, Lady Leonora had assumed much of the day-to-day running of the Winterfell household, ably assisted by her daughters, while Lord Wylis advised Sansa on the economics of establishing communal ovens and laundries, and rooms set up with spinning wheels and looms, which the womenfolk of Wintertown and the surrounding countryside could use to produce goods and services that others might pay for. That had been the greatest success to date, something Sansa was tremendously proud of.

Sansa picked up the raven scroll she’d received two days before from Lord Commander Mallister, apprising her of the results of the Night’s Watch vote: of two hundred thirty-two men, one hundred seventy-three wished to leave. Of those, there were ten with serious criminal backgrounds whom he did not think were fit for release from The Wall. Fifty-nine men, including Lord Commander Mallister, would prefer to keep their vows and remain at the Wall they’d sworn their lives to. Lord Commander Mallister was sending Castle Black’s maester, Taras Qoqu, to Winterfell to discuss Lord Wylis’s proposal for Eastwatch, in the company of Jon Snow.

Sansa had immediately sent ravens of her own, to White Harbor to summon Lord Wyman, and to Greywater Watch, to summon Howland Reed. 

It was late morning; Jon and the maester were unlikely to arrive for several hours yet. Sansa rose from her desk to go down to the kitchens to make sure the preparations for the feast were in place. This was unnecessary, as Lady Leonora had prepared for and presided over many a feast. But Sansa was full of a restless, nervous energy. Today she was wearing the blue dress she’d sewn herself at Castle Black, with wolves embroidered on the front. It was a visible sign of her reclaimed Stark heritage and her fierce determination to take back Winterfell. It was the dress she’d worn when she and Jon had traveled the countryside seeking the aid of Northern lords to their cause - a time that, in retrospect, she realized was strangely one of the happiest of her life. It was then that, without even realizing it was happening, she’d fallen in love with Jon.

As she made her way across the main courtyard to Winterfell’s kitchens Sansa smiled at stableboys and castle guards, and workmen carrying lumber to where Winterfell’s glass gardens were being rebuilt. Maester Wolkan spotted her and hurried over to fall into step with her. 

“Is there anything I can do to assist, your grace?” he asked.

“Assist with what, Maester?” Sansa asked in return.

“With the preparations for your cousin’s arrival,” Wolkan replied placidly.

Sansa sighed, “I’m not sure that there’s anything _I_ can do to assist. The Manderly ladies appear to have everything well in hand. But I thought I might go to the kitchens to see if I can do something there.”

Maester Wolkan stopped walking, and Sansa automatically stopped too. She raised an eyebrow inquiringly. The maester replied, “Your Grace, did you know that Lord Wyman Manderly arrived a short while ago? He’s being settled into his chambers right now.”

Sansa had not known. She smiled, “Ah, in that case I must go to welcome him. I know that the journey from White Harbor isn’t easy for him, but I want Jon to meet him.”

Maester Wolkan bowed. “Lady Wylla has taken her grandfather to the new guesthouse.”

Sansa nodded. “That’s good, there will be fewer stairs for him to climb.” She turned on her heel and set off in the direction of the guesthouse. She’d nearly reached it when she heard a guard call out from a lookout post in the tower over the gate: two riders approaching from the north.

It couldn’t be Jon - it was too early for it to be Jon. But Sansa found herself frozen, her heart starting to race. She touched her hair - it was in a simple side braid which was how she usually wore it when working or traveling; she’d intended to have her maid brush it out and dress it in another hour or two. Was it too late? It couldn’t be Jon. She did what she’d long ago learned to do when she found her hopeful heart was getting the better of her: she stepped outside of her excitement with a cooly appraising eye and for a brief moment knew that she was being ridiculous. It wasn’t Jon and she was being silly to imagine that it was. She took a deep breath and turned to knock on the guest house door.

But then she heard voices shouting and cheering, “He’s back!”  
“It’s Jon Snow!”  
“Lord Snow, Jon Snow”  
“Long Live Jon Snow!”  
“Welcome back, Lord Snow!”

Sansa picked up her skirts and ran back into the courtyard just as Jon’s horse trotted in through the gate. He spotted her immediately and leapt off his horse. She flew into his arms and he held her tight, then lifted her up and spun her around once before setting her back on her feet. A crowd of smiling faces had gathered. Jon grinned widely at her and then slowly drew his sword. Setting its tip on the ground, he then knelt before Sansa. 

“Your grace,” he said in a voice rough with tears, “I, Jon Snow, offer you my service. I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Sansa was blinking back tears of her own, “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. I pledge to ask no service of you that may bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A feast to welcome the Hero of the North back to Winterfell

Jon had dreamed of returning to Winterfell for many months, but he had also been dreading it. He remembered the cold reception he’d received the last time he’d returned, the silent disapproval evident on everyone’s faces. What his imperious aunt hadn’t understood was that the North’s lackluster welcome was as much a rebuke of him, for leaving for so long on the eve of war and for giving up the crown they’d only just bestowed upon him, as it was a rejection of her. He hadn’t tried to explain that, though, because Daenerys Targaryen had had little interest in people’s beliefs and feelings except as they pertained to her. 

He’d been taken aback by the enthusiasm the remaining members of the Night’s Watch had shown upon his arrival at Castle Black; now he was overwhelmed by the throngs of well-wishers who crowded into Winterfell’s courtyard and great hall to greet him. 

The celebration was open to all. The residents of Wintertown and families from nearby farms had streamed in, glad for a bit of merriment, but also keen to see the Hero of the North. Evidently Maester Taras had not simply plucked that moniker from the air.

Jon would have preferred a quieter homecoming. He’d grown accustomed to solitude and stillness living north of the wall. And Sansa. He’d have preferred to speak with her without scores of people watching excitedly, without having to meet dozens of people whose names he had no hope of remembering. But that’s not how it had turned out. His kneeling to her and vow of service had been a spur of the moment, instinctive act. He was so thrilled to see her, and needed to do something, since he couldn’t just endlessly embrace her in the courtyard. And unlike the pledges he'd reluctantly made to his power-hungry aunt, he’d meant every word of his vow to Sansa.

He was certain that she had grown objectively more beautiful since he’d last seen her, on the quay at King’s Landing. Her auburn hair glowed in the sunlight, her eyes were as bright as the summer sky above. Her smile was warm and unforced, and there was no sign of the wary unease that had lurked in the corners of her eyes when he'd last been in Winterfell. 

Wine and ale flowed freely as throngs of people milled about in Winterfell's main courtyard and in the great hall. Then kitchen servants began carrying platters of food into the great hall, and although not all of the guests could be accommodated there, eel pies were served in the courtyard so everyone got something. At the high table Jon was seated to Sansa's right, with Lord Wyman Manderly on her left, and his two granddaughters rounding out that end of the table. Lord Wylis Manderly sat to Jon's right, his wife Leonora beside him at the other end of the table (when she wasn’t on her feet consulting with the butlers who supervised the serving lads and maids). Jon spotted Maester Taras at a nearby table, deep in conversation with Maester Wolkan. Jon was glad to see Wolkan still at Winterfell; he knew that the quiet maester was devoted to Sansa and the Starks. It was good she had at least one familiar face with her at Winterfell. 

Lord Wylis Manderly was affable enough, and a prodigious eater. Jon didn’t have any appetite at all. He turned to Sansa just as she’d turned towards him, laughing at something old Wyman Manderly had said. Their eyes met and Jon had to wrestle with his tongue lest he blurt out something foolish. Instead he smiled back at her and managed to say simply, “Thank you, Sansa. Thank you for bringing me home.”

Sansa’s eyes grew teary, and her hand found his on the arm of his chair. “I have many duties and concerns as queen. But bringing you home has been the closest to my heart. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Of course I came. I’m still worried about what your father’s ghost would do if I ever failed you.”

“You’ve never failed me,” Sansa said, squeezing his hand. Their eyes had locked and Sansa unconsciously bit her lip. Jon smiled and squeezed her hand in return. Raising her chin with a knowing smile she quickly rose to her feet, picking up her wine goblet. Everyone else at the head table, Jon included, stood as soon as the Queen did, and in short order the room was standing respectfully, waiting for the Queen to speak.

Sansa began. “Friends, we have accomplished much in the last year, and I am grateful for the efforts of every person in this room. During this first year of true Northern independence” - several people broke into cheers, and Sansa smiled, pausing for a moment before continuing - “we have rebuilt what was destroyed and have built new things as well. I’m so proud of what we’ve already done, and I know we will continue to build a strong country, a country that is ours.” More cheering ensued. 

Sansa waited a bit longer this time before she continued. “But until today, I could not be truly content. Because the man who’d put his life in danger time and time again for the North, who fought tirelessly for the North, who confronted and defeated evils over and over was not here in the North. Now he is returned to us, and so today is a day of rejoicing. We owe a debt to Jon Snow that can never be repaid. But we can at the very least welcome him home.” She lifted her goblet, and then turned to Jon, smiling, “To Jon Snow, the Hero of the North.”

“To the Hero of the North!” the room thundered.

Jon acknowledged the toast with a smile that was only a little uncomfortable. He knew he should say something in response. “Thank you, Your Grace, for your words of praise. I’m not really sure I deserve them, or to be called a hero. I did what I could, what any man would do if it’d been him.”

“Not many men could ride a dragon into battle!” a man cried from the middle of the room. Everyone laughed, including Sansa.

“And fewer still could have killed the mad Dragon Queen before she burned more cities to the ground,” Wyman Manderly added bluntly. 

Jon gazed into the depths of his cup. Daenerys hadn’t been mad, not like that. But it was clear that this was a widely held belief. And did it really matter _why_ she'd burned King's Landing? Whether out of madness or malice, she'd killed tens of thousands of innocent people. Perhaps more. And he'd killed her.

He looked up, and said solemnly, “Aye, after coming Winterfell to help us defeat the Night King, Daenerys Targaryen turned around and did a great evil, without remorse. The world wouldn’t be safe as long as she and her dragon were in it.” His eyes met Maester Taras’s. “I couldn’t kill her dragon, but I could kill her. So I did. I’m still not sure that makes me a hero.” The room was still, all eyes on him.

He turned to Sansa, “The Boltons were evil, and we defeated them together. The Night King was evil, and we defeated him together. And now the Dragon Queen is dead too, and the North can breathe free at last ... We can now live without fear, together, as proud Northerners. I’m very glad to be home, and for that I must thank our good queen. To Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North!”

“To the Queen in the North!” the room chorused.

Sansa smiled and bowed her head before sitting down again. As others followed suit, Jon noticed the younger of the two Manderly girls further down the table, a pretty young woman who sported improbably green hair. She was glaring at him suspiciously. Startled, Jon sat down a bit harder in his chair than he would have otherwise. 

Sansa leaned over. “You must be tired. I’m sorry that there wasn’t time for you to wash up and change your clothes before the festivities began. You arrived before we were expecting you, and so things didn’t go exactly as planned.” She smiled ruefully, her hand stealing unconsciously to her braided hair. “In a few minutes I’ll go up to my chambers and then you can make your escape to yours. It’s ready for you, and I’ve had clean clothes laid out for you. Later, when you’ve rested, we can talk in my chambers without half of the North in attendance.”

“I’d like nothing better,”Jon replied sincerely. 

Sansa started to rise but Lady Leonora stopped her. “Your Grace, just a moment if you wouldn’t mind?”

Sansa complied, sitting back in her chair with a quizzical look. Two servants approached the high table bearing between them a large platter piled high with small round cakes. If Jon wasn’t mistaken they were…

“Lemon cakes!” Sansa exclaimed as the servants stopped in front of the table. She sprang up in surprised delight, turning to Lady Leonora, “But I thought there were no lemons to be found anywhere in the North right now?”

Lord Wyman replied for his daughter-in-law. “A special shipment arrived from Dorne at the beginning of the week, and I brought ‘em up with me from White Harbor. The Prince of Dorne has also sent you a dozen lemon trees in pots, for your glass garden, and those are on their way to Winterfell too.

Sansa’s smile grew wider, “Thank you Lord Wyman. This is a lovely surprise. She turned back to Lady Manderly, “However did you manage to make the cakes so quickly?”

Lady Leonora explained, “Father let me know he’d be bringing the lemons with him, so the cooks had everything in readiness. We took the lemons into the kitchen even before we got him settled in his chamber." She shot a conspiratorial glance at Maester Wolkan, seated nearby, “I understand that you nearly discovered our little surprise, Your Grace, but you were thankfully diverted away from the kitchens.”

Sansa smiled archly at Wolkan,“And I never even realized I was being diverted. Then my cousin arrived and I forgot all about the kitchens." She reached behind Jon and Lord Wyllis to squeeze Lady Leonora’s hand,“Thank you, Lady Manderly. Today I received two things I’ve been longing for.” Lady Leonora smiled warmly at the young queen, and nodded to the servants to begin serving the cakes.

Jon remembered Sansa’s childhood love of lemon cakes. Ever the little lady, even as a young child Sansa had not been one to push for her turn, as Arya always had, or to battle for the last piece of sweet bread or pie, as he and Robb had often done. But everyone in the family knew how much Sansa loved lemon cakes - she’d never pushed or pinched to get the last one, because she didn’t have to, the others would always yield it to her. There were always lemon cakes for her birthday; Jon had secretly looked forward to Sansa’s birthdays because he, too, enjoyed lemon cakes. There’d been no such luxuries available at Castle Black, nor at Winterfell after they’d taken it back from the Boltons. It had been a very long time since Jon had had a bite of lemon cake. Now a cake sat on small plate before him, but Jon paid it no heed, as he was absorbed in watching Sansa savor hers.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa finally get to talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This chapter is really what drove me to write the story in the first place. I'll be on the road again next week so won't update again until next weekend at the earliest. Thanks so much for reading!

Jon knocked on the door to Sansa’s chambers and was admitted by a handmaiden he’d not seen before. Smiling shyly with a bobbed curtsy, the young woman left, closing the door behind her.

“Jon.” Sansa was standing before the hearth where a small, bright fire was burning. Instead of a workaday braid, her hair was simply dressed, with two small, twisting plaits that started at her temples and skirted the crown of her head, while the rest of her auburn hair flowed down her back in shining waves.

He strode across the room and caught her tight, in a lingering embrace that neither were inclined to step back from. But eventually he did, and she gestured to one of the two chairs positioned in front of the fireplace. Before he’d gone south, the first time, they’d spent many a companionable evening sitting in those chairs.

“Just like old times,” he remarked. 

Sansa’s smile was warm and apologetic. “Yes. I’m sorry it happened the way it did, Jon. We were in a stalemate with the Unsullied. They’d wanted to execute you for killing the Dragon Queen. Sending you to the Wall was the best compromise we could arrive at.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. When I told them what I’d done, I thought I’d be killed on the spot. Just a few hours earlier they’d been slaughtering Lannister soldiers who’d already surrendered, because their queen wanted no prisoners. They disputed among themselves about what to do with me - I couldn’t understand what they were saying. But they seemed to need someone else to determine what justice would look like for me.”

Sansa shook her head, “They were out of their depth. Apparently they’d been so harshly conditioned to obey, with no regard for themselves, that they found it very hard to have thoughts of their own that weren’t given to them by their master. Or whatever the Dragon Queen was to them. Their training reminds me of what Ramsay did to Theon - tortured and terrorized him so much that he didn’t even know his own name. When Theon was under Ramsay’s control, Theon didn’t dare to have thoughts of his own. His sister, Yara, had tried to rescue him, but by then he was too afraid of Ramsay to go with her, choosing to remain Ramsay’s miserable creature, because he didn’t dare to imagine anything else. I wonder if that’s what it was like for the Unsullied.”

Jon stared into the flames, “I don’t know exactly what Ramsay Bolton did, but Theon was clearly broken in mind and spirit. I don’t think that was true of the Unsullied, at least not in the same way, but they were not free men who could think for themselves.”

Sansa sighed sadly, “I’m sorry you were treated like a criminal, and sent into exile. You didn’t deserve that after all you’d been through. And I’m sorry it took me this long to get you back home.”

Jon shook his head, “No, it was for the best. For all involved, including me. Especially me. So much had happened, so quickly, and even though I had time to think about it all when I was locked up, I needed more than a month to sort it all out. Living in solitude amongst the Wildlings was the best thing for me.”

Sansa nodded in understanding, “And at least you had Ghost with you.”

Jon looked up, his smile deepening, “Aye, I had Ghost there to remind me of who I am and what’s important.” He stood, and walked towards the open window which was filled with the glow of the setting sun.

Sansa turned in her seat to look at him. “There’s nothing more important than home. As you’ve seen everyone is overjoyed that you’ve returned. They once chose you to be their king, and the people love you. They know what you did for the North.”

Jon turned away from the window to face her. “They love the queen they have now - from the Wall to White Harbor, and other places as well, I expect. You have accomplished so much in just a year, Sansa, and I know I couldn’t have done it half as well as you have.” 

She’d risen from her chair and he strode back over to stand before her. “You’ve even won over Denys Mallister, and that is no mean feat! I always knew that you would do well by your people but I’m ashamed to say that I had no notion of just what you could accomplish if given the chance. I would never have thought of half the things that you’ve done! You haven’t just repaired what was damaged in the wars, you’ve built new, found ways for widows to earn coin with weaving and dying and baking. When I was at Castle Black I heard that not only will you offer land to men of the Night’s Watch who wish to farm it, you’ve made it known in the Six Kingdoms that men and families who wish to own land may come North to settle.”

Sansa blushed and smiled with a mix of pleasure and embarrassment. “These ideas are not all mine, you do realize. I’ve been fortunate to have good counsel from Maester Wolkan, and as you’ve seen the Manderlys have been an invaluable support. ‘Twas the maester who pointed out that it’s not just luck that makes a successful farm, it’s knowledge, and not all have it. So now we have a guild for farmers, and Maester Wolkan persuaded another maester, one who specializes in agriculture, to come up here to provide guidance.

“I was very glad to see Maester Wolkan here with you still. He’s a very good man. But I remember that the Manderlys declined to help us when we sought their aid against the Boltons.”

Sansa looked frankly at Jon as she explained, “Lord Wylis was still a Lannister prisoner at the time, and Lord Wyman’s other son, Wendel, was killed with Robb. Lord Wyman had to move cautiously out of love for his family. I shall never fault him for that.”

“And he and his son remained cautiously in place at White Harbor during the Great War.”

“They’d watched you and the Dragon Queen arrive at White Harbor with thousands of Unsullied troops and two grown dragons. If that wasn’t enough to stop the Night King, what use would their troops have been?”

“The same logic Lord Glover used,” Jon observed flatly.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Lord Glover is a different matter entirely. Wyman Manderly and his family - Lord Wylis, Lady Leonora, and their daughters Wynafryd and Wylla - have been helpful in more ways than I can count. You’ll have to trust me on this point until you see for yourself.”

Jon’s demeanor softened again, a rueful smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. “I trust you, always. If you value the Manderlys as much as that, I’m sure I’ll come to see their worth myself soon enough. Although I think the green-haired one doesn’t like me.”

Sansa chuckled. “That is Wylla, and she is very protective of her loved ones - of whom I am lucky to number among now. Wynafryd has also become very dear to me in this last year, but Wylla is fierce in her love. She reminds me more than a little of Arya, although they didn’t get along as children when Mother took us to White Harbor. My mother and Lady Manderly were good friends.”

Jon nodded, “Yes, I remember Lady Leonora and those girls visiting here when we were all young. Wylla wasn’t dying her hair green then. But this doesn’t explain why she was glowering at me throughout the feast. I wasn’t expecting the warm reception I got from most here, but as it was Wylla stood out not only because of her hair but because she looked like she was sure I was going to nick some of the silver from the high table.”

Sansa sighed, “It’s not the silver she’s fretting about. Wylla is afraid that … well, she’s afraid that now that you’re back I shall yield the crown to you. She’s very taken with the idea of a queen who rules in her own right.”

Jon interjected quickly, “I don’t want your crown Sansa. That’s not why I came back.”

Sansa replied evenly, “I’m so glad that you came, and I believe that you don’t want the Northern crown.”

“I don’t. I never wanted it. But Winterfell is the only home I’ve ever wanted.” Sansa watched him steadily, and he moved closer, now standing so that she was within easy reach. “Your letter said I would be welcome here, whether I came as your brother, or your cousin, or simply a man of the North. You said nothing about being a king.”

Sansa caught her breath audibly, then asked quietly, “So how would you like to be received?” 

“Not as your brother,” Jon said gently. Their eyes met, Jon’s solemn, Sansa’s uncertain. “And so there can be no question of me being King in the North. Ned Stark was a father to me in every way that mattered, but it is widely known now that Rhaegar Targaryen was my sire. I cannot claim the Stark name, not even from the wrong side of the blanket. And I’ll never take the Targaryen name. So I shall remain Jon Snow.”

Sansa swallowed hard, casting her eyes down at her shoes. “There is … another possibility, although I don’t know if you’d consider it. I, that is, our family - and the Starks are your family, even if you cannot claim the name in your own right - our family line must be continued.” 

Jon remained silent so Sansa went on, still not looking at him, “I don’t know what Arya will do down the road, but she seems unlikely to settle down anytime soon. And anyway she and I have the same problem: whomever we marry will expect us to take their names, to give up being a Stark. I won’t do that, I cannot. I had the names of Lannister and Bolton forced upon me, and I swore I would never give up my own identity ever again. And now I am a queen, as well as the Lady of Winterfell, so it seems even more important that I keep the Stark name. Father so often said that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. And so I need to find a man who would be willing to join my family and take my name. I wonder ... if that’s something you might consider.” By the time she’d finished, Sansa was blushing furiously, uncharacteristically discomfited. 

Jon barely registered Sansa’s clear embarrassment, too stunned by her proposal. “Sansa ... are you, are you asking me to marry you? That’s … I, I cannot.”

Sansa looked stricken and retreated several steps while blinking back tears, her words in a tumbled rush. “It was a foolish thought. I shouldn’t have said anything, I know you could never, I just, I just thought this would be a way that the North could have a queen and the king that they deserve. And a way to give my children the Stark name. And a way for you to take the Stark name for yourself. But it was a foolish idea, please just forget I ever mentioned it - ” she broke off with a self-deprecating laugh, shaking her head. “This isn’t how I’d intended to broach the subject - .”

Jon interrupted her as he closed the space between them. “Sansa, wait.” She was staring into the fire, face flaming. He lightly clasped her shoulder and then ran his hand down her arm to take her hand in his. His right hand tipped her chin to draw her face and gaze upwards. Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears when they met his. “Sansa, do you _wish_ to be wed to me?”

A fat tear escaped and melted down her cheek. Sansa drew a shaky breath and opened her mouth to answer, but instead just nodded mutely.

Jon’s own eyes were growing moist too. He gently wiped the tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. His voice was unsteady and quiet, “I don’t deserve to be your husband, Sansa.”

Sansa stiffened and drew back a step, turning her head away from his hand. But she couldn’t go far, because he’d tightened his grip on her hand, holding her fast. For once he would not remain silent. “You think I’m offering excuses but I am telling you this sincerely: I love you. I have been in love with you since shortly after you arrived at Castle Black. It feels as though I’ve loved you forever. But I am not worthy of you. I’m not worthy to be King in the North. I am forsworn, I am a kinslayer, and I have no one but myself to blame for the things I have done.”

Sansa gasped, turning to stare at Jon. For once the woman who could twist him like no other with well-chosen words was speechless.

Jon looked at her gravely, and reached to take her other hand in his. “I fought for the North, yes, but I really fought for _you_. I would do anything to protect you, to keep you safe. I came back to Winterfell to serve you, however you’ll have me.”

Sansa regained control of her tongue as she stared at Jon, still uncertain but with dawning hope. “And if I would have you as my husband? I pay no heed to the crimes you accuse yourself of. You are the most honorable man I know, and you are the only man I love.”

Jon could not trust his ears. “You _love_ me? Not … not as a brother?” 

Sansa was still struggling to hold back her tears. “I do. I’ve been in love with you for a long time, but I was slow to realize it. It’s only been a little more than a year that I’ve known I was in love with you. I’d missed you so much when you were at Dragonstone. Arya and Bran were both so changed, so unlike the sister and brother I’d known that, although I was glad to have them at Winterfell again, it didn’t feel like they’d truly come back. They didn’t make Winterfell feel more like home. And so I thought my longing for you was simply a longing for the brother who’d become so dear to me.” Sansa wiped at newly formed tears with the back of the hand that she’d tugged free from Jon’s hold.

She drew a shaky breath and continued, “I … when you returned with the Dragon Queen on your arm, I was thrown. I’d tried to see the good in it, but not only did she seem dangerous and untrustworthy, I was consumed with jealousy. I’d never felt that before and I didn’t understand why I was feeling it. Arya didn’t like or trust the Dragon Queen either, but she didn’t loathe her the way I did. After the horrors of the battle with the Dead, when I found you alive with Bran and Arya in the godswood, I was so relieved but also so grieved about Theon and the many others we’d lost, that I felt quite stunned and numb. And there was so much to do for those that lived. I just set my feelings aside and focused on what needed to be done. It wasn’t until you and Bran told us who you really were that it finally, fully dawned on me that I was in love with you. And then you were gone, again. With her. I knew you were afraid of her, of what she might do. But I also knew that you loved her, and that I was merely your second-favorite half-sister, who was really just a cousin.”

Sansa drew another breath, not shaky this time. “But that didn’t change how I felt about you. When I heard about what happened in King’s Landing, and that you were being held by the Unsullied I immediately summoned our banners. Even Lord Glover answered my call, as did my cousin Robert Arryn, and my uncle in Riverrun. I’d thought to free you and restore your crown, because I’ve always believed in you. You are the most honorable, strongest, and _best_ man that I know. You might have been Ned Stark’s nephew but you embody all the goodness he tried to teach his children. And I shall never love anyone else the way that I love you.”

Jon pulled Sansa to him, sliding an arm around the small of her back. Their faces were nose to nose. She tilted her head slightly and he leaned in to kiss her with years of pent-up passion. Sansa was welcoming but unsure, and as Jon recalled her history, he immediately gentled the kiss, easing back a fraction to cradle her face in his hands, with his lips still pressed gently against hers. 

Eventually Jon stepped back, breathing heavily. Sansa’s eyes opened slowly. He reached for her hand and kissed it warmly, then clasped it between both of his. “I don’t think you understand why I’m saying that I’m not worthy to be your husband. I don’t deserve to have you as my wife, and I also don’t deserve to be King in the North, even if only through marriage. I am indeed a kinslayer and oathbreaker. I am by birth a Targaryen. Even if those things weren’t enough to damn me, I’ve also made so many deadly mistakes, things that I’ll never be able to atone for - mistakes that will haunt me for the rest of my days. An entire city was burned to the ground because I didn’t handle my aunt well enough.”

Sansa frowned. “Jon you cannot hold yourself accountable for what that woman did. It doesn’t matter that she was your aunt - her blood did not make the choice to burn down King’s Landing. She made that choice. She hungered for people’s attention and admiration. That was clear from the moment she arrived at Winterfell. But she also craved people’s fear. I’ve known people like that - Joffrey and Ramsay both loved to elicit fear - and I could sense that same thing in her. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first, because while Ramsay and Joffrey openly enjoyed inciting fear, the Dragon Queen disguised herself with noble words and professions of goodwill. That made it harder for me to recognize exactly what she was. But she made me uneasy from the start and I did not trust her, ever. And yes, I was jealous of the affection you had for her. And perhaps you still do, despite all that happened…”

Jon sighed, and reached out a hand to stroke her hair. “I did not love her. I know you believe that I did. Many people believed I did, including her, for a while. I let her believe it, because it made her more inclined to cooperate with me. You are right, she sought the admiration of all those around her. She wanted people to love her, but she was just as happy to have them fear her. So long as she was on top and in command. And I was convinced that we needed her armies and her dragons, so I made up to her just like everyone else around her did. I loathed myself for the lies I’d resorted to using. But I’d thought it was necessary.” Jon shook his head before continuing.

“But we wouldn’t have needed them if I hadn’t been obsessed with keeping the Army of the Dead out of Westeros. That was my gravest error, and because of it I brought two monsters to the North, and then helped one of them to burn King’s Landing.”

Sansa squeezed his hand. “Jon, before he and I went south last year I had several long conversations with Bran. About the Night King, and what Bran had known beforehand. I’d been so worried about him putting himself into danger as he did. If Arya hadn’t gotten there in time …” Sansa shivered and left that thought unfinished.

“Those conversations were, well, enlightening. I understand Bran, what he is now, much better than I had before. Which is not to say that I truly understand him - he’s not really, well, he’s not really Bran anymore. I think my brother is still in there, somewhere, and sometimes I could glimpse him. But mostly he is the Three-Eyed Raven. He spends so much of his time greenseeing. His greensight shows the past most clearly, and he also can warg his ravens or other animals to see what he wishes in the present. But his sight can also show him glimpses of the future.”

Jon took in what she was telling him with some difficulty. He pulled his hands away from her and paced in front of the hearth. “Are you saying that he knew the Night King would come, and he knew that Arya would kill him? Why didn’t he tell us?”

Sansa hesitated for a moment before replying, “Well, he did … in a way. I still don’t understand exactly what he knew beforehand, but he knew enough to give Arya that dagger. And he told us that the Night King was coming for him. I believe he must be very cautious about interfering with events based on what he has seen. I don’t know how certain he is about what he sees that is yet to come. But when we heard that Euron Greyjoy had killed a dragon, Bran smiled and said that it was meant to be, that others would complete what the Night King had started when he’d killed the first dragon.”

Jon gaped at her. “Are you saying that Bran was _in league_ with the Night King?”

Sansa looked startled, “What? No, no, that’s not what I meant at all. I’m not doing a good job explaining. I, I’ve never fully understood what Bran has said about his powers, so it’s very hard to explain them to someone else. But he told me that .. when the Dragon Queen first arrived in Westeros, the Night King was the only power capable of threatening her dragons. The Night King was a greenseer too, you know, and he knew that you and the others would go north of the Wall, and that the Dragon Queen would come to save you. He was lying in wait for her and her dragons - because that was the only way he’d be able to pursue Bran south of the Wall to Winterfell.”

Jon shut his eyes in agony. “It was a trap. I led us into a trap. After Hardhome, I should have known better.”

Sansa frowned. “How could you possibly have known the Night King’s intentions? And that stupid expedition wasn’t your idea, anyway.”

Jon had moved to lean against the mantel, his head bowed. “I never told you this at the time; I’ve never told anyone about this. After we beat the Boltons I started having dreams about the Night King. At first it was just every few nights, but within a month it was every night. I dreamt about the Army of the Dead coming to Winterfell. They were the worst nightmares I’ve ever had and they were so, so real. I’d wake up able to think of nothing else.”

Sansa nodded slowly, “Yes, I remember how intensely you were focused on the threat to the north.”

“But you didn’t know exactly why I was so … obsessed.” Jon looked up. “Ever since I learned about the Night King raising the dragon he’d killed, and using it to break the Wall, I’ve wondered how and why I got it so very wrong. If I hadn’t been so worried about the Night King, I wouldn’t have gone south to seek dragonglass and assistance. And if I hadn’t done that, the mission to capture a wight wouldn’t have been undertaken. The Wall would remain intact and the Night King unable to pass it. The Dragon Queen would never have come North. And who knows what might have happened differently in the South? 

They stood in uncomfortable silence for several moments. 

Then Sansa ventured, hesitantly, “I wonder … if the Night King was a greenseer, could he have sent those dreams to you?”

Jon drew up, troubled by the prospect, “Can greenseers do that? Can they send dreams to other people? Can Bran do that?”

Sansa answered carefully, “I don’t know. What I recall is that Bran said .. that once the Night King killed a dragon, everything else that happened after that ... his attacks on the Wall and on Winterfell, Arya killing him, the second dragon falling to Euron Greyjoy, and the Dragon Queen burning King’s Landing - was all necessary. Including you killing her.”

Jon was frowning. “Necessary for what?”

“To rid the world of men from unnatural, magical threats. Bran said that with three dragons, nothing could have stopped the Dragon Queen. You saw what she did with just one. All of Westeros would have fallen under her shadow, and huge parts of it would have been burned to ashes, just as King’s Landing actually was. So when she took her dragons north of the Wall, everything was set in motion. She lost one dragon, and the Night King gained the means to get past the Wall. The Night King was killed, freeing Westeros from its ancient foe. And in that battle the Dragon Queen lost half of her forces to the Army of the Dead, one of her remaining dragons was weakened, and soon after that it was killed. Then she was down to one dragon, which was still terrible, but better than if there’d been three. The Dragon Queen slaughtered thousands of innocent people. But she’d have slaughtered millions if she hadn’t been slowed and then killed.” 

Sansa continued, “This is not just according to Bran. I spoke with Tyrion after he was freed, and he admitted that it had long been the Dragon Queen’s wish to burn the Red Keep. He had to keep talking her out of it. Burning her enemies was the only thing your aunt knew how to do. One of Tyrion Lannister’s greatest crimes was his hubris in thinking he could restrain her indefinitely.”

Jon remained silent, so Sansa pressed on. “Bran told me that, one way or another, the Dragon Queen would have burned King’s Landing. The only two people who could have stopped that from happening were Daenerys Targaryen herself and Cersei Lannister - and neither was willing to yield to the other. Neither of them cared anything at all for the lives of other people. But you saved people, Jon, who can know how many, by killing your monstrous aunt.”

Jon was still silent for a long moment, staring into the flames in the hearth. Finally he looked up at Sansa, asking, “So are you suggesting that the Night King was trying to get rid of Daenerys and her dragons?”

Sansa paused before answering, considering the question, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Bran certainly never suggested that. By all accounts - including hers - the Night King didn’t seem to be interested in trying to kill either her or her dragons during the Battle of Winterfell. I think Bran was indeed the Night King’s primary target. If I understood Bran correctly, the Night King’s interest in the dragons was as a means to an end: to get past the Wall. He wasn’t concerned with them otherwise. But he showed it was possible to kill a dragon, and when Cersei’s people learned it could be done, they set about building a weapon that could kill the other two. If they’d managed to kill both dragons, Cersei Lannister might have been hailed as a heroine.”

This was a lot for Jon to take in. For the last year his mind had been preoccupied with self-recriminations as he’d tried to figure out where he’d gone wrong - and why. But it hadn’t occurred to him that pitting the dragons against the Night King had spelled the doom of two of the three fire-breathers, as well as the accursed, ancient enemy of the living. He returned to the chair he’d been sitting in when the conversation began, and slumped over, elbows resting on knees, holding his head in his hands. Sansa stayed where she was, watching him.

Eventually he looked up at her, shifting to sit up and lean one elbow on the arm of the chair, “Once I’d gone south to Dragonstone, I felt like I was no longer making my own decisions. And in some ways I was not free to: Daenerys kept me a prisoner in all but name for nearly two months, before I left with Jorah Mormont to capture a wight. As you know that was not an undertaking of my design, but it was better than staying on that cursed island with a woman I did not like or respect. Later, when I’d pledged myself to her and she’d agreed to come to the North’s aid, I did start to feel like I’d regained some control - although at the cost of my integrity and the North’s sovereignty. 

“But then I learned about who my parents really were, and just how cruel my aunt could be, and suddenly everything I’d been doing seemed for naught. I felt like I was a puppet, trapped in a story I was powerless to change. I couldn’t keep f- I couldn’t continue to be her lover once I knew she was my aunt. And I thought she’d understand, and that she’d be glad to have living family. I’d already surrendered my kingdom to her, she had to know I didn’t want the Iron Throne. But all she cared about were her “rights,” which weren’t actually hers. And in the battle against the Night King, I saw that it was all for nothing - the dragons did very little. Her Dothraki and Unsullied were brave fighters but in the end they accomplished nothing against the Night King. I accomplished nothing against the Night King. I was irrelevant in that fight. Bran was the Night King’s target, and Arya was the one who defeated him.”

Sansa stirred, and moved to sit at Jon’s feet, her hands clasping his knees as she looked squarely up into his face. “I don’t believe that is true. And this is the heart of what I’d discussed with Bran. I’m still not sure that I fully understood what he told me, but … he knew the Night King was coming for him. Bran knew that the Night King knew where he was, and that he was a greenseer himself, so he was privy to all of the plans that we made. The Night King knew the defenses we’d planned, he knew where Bran would be and how he’d be guarded. Bran said that the White Walkers never engaged the living in battle, that all of the fighting our forces did was against the wights - including the wight dragon - and the Night King himself. The Night King was very sure of his goal and felt no need to deploy his lieutenants. 

“That is why Bran did not tell us anything specific beforehand about what would happen. It’s why he insisted on positioning himself away from other living noncombatants. He needed the Night King to believe it would be easy to get to him, and to defeat the defenses we had in place. He made no plan with Arya, as he had with you. He’d once had a glimpse of her killing the Night King with that dagger, but was careful to never think of it again directly, lest the Night King discern his purpose. And until Arya had actually killed him, Bran had never been certain that the Night King hadn’t managed to discern his intentions, despite his precautions.” Sansa paused for a moment. Jon was gently stroking her hair as he stared sightlessly ahead of him, taking in what she’d told him.

He looked down at her, his hand stilling on her head. “So all of us - the dragons, the Dothraki and Unsullied, and all of the Northern fighters we’d assembled - we were just a diversion?”

Sansa nodded, “Essentially, yes. Bran said that he was very limited in what he could do, given that the Night King could always discover any plans Bran discussed with others. Bran had been inspired by the tactics he’d seen Robb use at Whispering Woods, and he thought that our best hope would lie in stealth, by luring the Night King into complacency. If the Night King had fully deployed the White Walkers, or if he’d been on his guard when he entered the godswood, he would have won and we’d all be dead.”

Jon bent and kissed the top of Sansa’s head. “It worked, his plan worked. And I’m glad of it. I felt so useless in that battle, and was sure we would all perish. Then suddenly, the threat was gone, and I was so relieved. But I felt so … foolish … for thinking that armies and dragons would defeat the Night King, when all it took was one feisty girl with a Valyrian steel dagger.”

Sansa wrinkled her nose wryly at Jon, as she rose to seat herself in the chair next to his. “Your description doesn’t do Arya justice; she was not merely a girl with a dagger and some notion of how to wield it. She might not have had the threat of the Night King in her mind for as long as you did, but the path that she’d followed, the path that took her into the godswood that night, was a terrible, dangerous path that cost her nearly everything.”

Jon smiled ruefully in acknowledgement, “I know that. I wasn’t intending to make light of all that Arya went through or to belittle her skills as, well, as a killer. I pity anyone who crosses swords with her, and am glad it’ll never be me. What I was trying to say is that after the Battle of Winterfell, all that I’d done to prepare for it, the lies I’d told and the sacrifices I’d asked you and the North to make, felt like they were empty gestures. Maybe they weren’t, maybe they were necessary for Bran’s plan to work. And it did work. But I felt so foolish, and very quickly became aware that not only had I been next to useless against the Night King, I’d brought another threat to our very doorstep. I invited her into our home.”

Sansa reached out to clasp his hand, “You did what you could and what you believed was necessary to protect your home and your country. No one can fault you for that.”

Jon shook his head, “But I was wrong. And my mistake was deadly for the men of the North who were obliged to march south to fulfill the promise I’d made to my aunt.”

He continued, “Moreover, while I’d been too quick to take action against the threat I perceived in the Night King, I was too slow to recognize the threat she posed to everyone. Really, her aim wasn’t so different from the Night King’s - he’d wanted to force all of the living to join the Army of the Dead, and she wanted to force everyone to bow to her and do her bidding. I saw the Night King as a formidable enemy the moment I saw him. Why didn’t I realize sooner that she was just as bad?”

Sansa objected, “Perhaps in some abstract way her aim might be compared to the Night King’s, but she wasn’t an immortal ice demon surrounded by an army of rotting dread. She was a beautiful young woman, who spoke of lofty goals. It’s hardly surprising that you didn’t immediately realize the full extent of how dangerous she really was. To me, she wasn’t so different from Cersei, who believed that everyone who wasn’t under her thumb was an enemy. Cersei once told me that the only sure way to rule is by making sure everyone is so afraid of you that they won’t dare to resist. The Dragon Queen clearly shared that belief.”

Jon sighed. “You’re right. You and Arya saw through her much more quickly than I did.”

Sansa stepped back a bit to look at Jon intently. “I spent years as a captive in King’s Landing, subject to the whims of Cersei and Joffrey. By the time Daenerys Targaryen arrived at Winterfell, I knew all too well what tyranny and an unslakable thirst for power looked like, and I knew it could inhabit a woman’s form just as easily as a man’s. Until you encountered the Dragon Queen you'd never met a powerful woman who sought to assert her will over others, to dominate them. You’re protective of women, just like Father was. That protective instinct made him blind to the very real threat that Cersei posed to him and to me and Arya - Joffrey might have been the one to kill Father, but he'd never have been in a position to do so if Father hadn’t underestimated Cersei’s aggression and lust for power.” 

Sansa left her chair to kneel again at Jon’s feet, taking his hands in hers. “But the thing that makes you protective of women and those who are weaker than you is one of your most admirable traits. You are a good man, who had to do something dreadful and difficult, because it was necessary. Daenerys Targaryen chose her own fate. She could have tried to build alliances with willing partners, she could have offered assistance without seeking advantage for herself. Instead she chose to dominate, terrify, and murder anyone who stood in her way. She was an arrogant tyrant, who mouthed some pretty words about breaking chains and wheels while pursuing what she wanted. Cersei did that, too. Both of them were very willing to take advantage of others’ kindness and compassion. Neither of them cared about anyone but themselves.”

Jon gazed down at Sansa, his eyes brimming with tears. “I cannot deny your reading of her character, but you cannot hold me blameless in what happened. I fully knew what she was capable of by the time she attacked King’s Landing. I’d watched her burn Varys alive, and saw the malicious thrill she got from doing it. If I’d killed her sooner … I had the chance, on Dragonstone. But I didn’t do it. I was still unwilling to fully acknowledge what she was capable of. And … I was reluctant to become a kinslayer. I did not love my aunt as she’d wanted me to, but I did have some … sympathy I suppose you could call it, for what she was. She was a lonely woman who wanted love but only knew how to dominate and intimidate others.”

Sansa nodded slowly, “Doing what is necessary isn’t always easy. It was hard for me to condemn Littlefinger to death, and I was not even the one wielding the blade. I knew I couldn’t trust him. But still I’d waited until I felt certain that he’d continue to try to turn our family against each other, that he was too dishonest and malevolent to allow him to keep on oozing poison. And then Bran confirmed just how much of an enemy he’d been to our family, for many years. That was the final straw.”

Jon‘s jaw clenched and he nodded.“She’d wanted to kill you. She knew you didn’t like her and once she knew that you knew who I really was, she viewed you as a threat to her rule.” 

Sansa smiled grimly. “Did she? I’m not surprised. And she wasn’t wrong, I’d have done all I could to thwart her. I said I mistrusted her from the start, although I wasn’t entirely sure why until just before she left. Once I saw that Tyrion was afraid of her, and then I realized that you were too, suddenly everything all made sense. The only thing I could not understand at that point was how you could be in love with her.” 

Jon smiled sadly, and rose, pulling Sansa up into a tight embrace. He spoke into her hair. “I’d been hiding my love for you from everyone for a long time, most of all from you, because until Sam told me the truth about my parents, I’d been deeply ashamed of what I felt for you, when I thought you were my sister. I thought my feelings for you were a sign of my deviant nature as a bastard. Or that being brought back from the dead had changed me, made me go wrong.”

Sansa responded softly, “I was ashamed too, and so confused by what I was feeling when you’d returned. I was ashamed of begrudging you happiness - why shouldn’t my brother fall in love with a beautiful, powerful queen? But I hated it so much. And I knew my judgment was clouded, but you didn’t seem happy at all. Which made the presence of the Dragon Queen even more intolerable to me. She had you, but there was no joy in you when she was nearby. I don’t know if you can understand how difficult it is to be polite to someone when you just want to spit in their face.”

Jon gave a small laugh and shifted his hold on her so that they could stand face to face again. “Well I do know, as a matter of fact. I don’t suppose you know this but I had a bit of a ... confrontation with Littlefinger right before I left Winterfell for Dragonstone. He’d come upon me in the crypts and told me that he loved you. I couldn’t keep my temper in check and I, well, I might have laid hands on him. I suppose that wasn't very _polite_.”

Sansa laughed too. “Did you? He never mentioned it. But he did try to sow doubt about you in me by speculating that you might marry the Dragon Queen. At the time I couldn’t see what his aim was in bringing that up, but now I wonder if perhaps he’d suspected I was in love with you and was trying to verify that by gauging my reaction to the idea of you marrying another.” 

Jon pulled her in for another lingering kiss. When he lifted his head, Sansa opened her eyes, smiling at him and asked, “So is it settled? Will you marry me and take the Stark name?”

Jon took a step back but kept her circled in his arms. “I don’t know. I need some time to think about this, Sansa. I want it, I want you. I want a life with you. But I don’t trust my judgement any more - I can’t. I’ve made too many terrible mistakes to believe that I can know what is right.”

Sansa nodded solemnly at him. “I understand. There is no rush.” Her demeanor turned playful, “Well, not unless you mean to take years!”

Jon smiled in return. “Thank you, Sansa. This day is the happiest I’ve ever known.” He couldn’t resist kissing her once more.

“It is for me, too,” she replied earnestly when their lips had parted. She stepped out of his arms and flashed a merry grin, “And there were even lemon cakes!” 

He smiled in response, and watched as she crossed to her dressing table to check her hair in the mirror, and smooth it into place.

“Before the evening grows too late, I must consult with the maester from Castle Black who traveled with you. I understand that he has a proposition for Eastwatch that he’d like me to consider. Do you know what it is?”

“I do not,” Jon said. “But I like Maester Taras very much. He’s an intelligent, thoughtful man.”

Sansa nodded in agreement, and as she approached him again on her way to the door, she swooped in for a final, quick kiss. “I share your opinion of him. I shall meet with him in my office if you care to join us?”

Jon considered before replying, “Nay, I don’t think you’ll need me. And I have a lot of thinking to do.”

“That you do,” she responded brightly. She continued to the door, opening it before turning back to him, “Oh, Jon, there’s one more thing you should know. I’ve summoned Howland Reed to Winterfell. He was with Father at the Tower of Joy, when he came for your mother and left with you instead. I visited him in Greywater Watch on my way back from King’s Landing last year. He’s a good man, and I think he can tell you a bit about your mother, whom he knew before she married Rhaegar Targaryen. I thought you might wish to speak with him.”

Jon stood rooted in place, amazed yet again by his cousin’s thoughtful resourcefulness. “I … thank you, Sansa. I am even further in your debt.”

She smiled and turned, leaving him alone in the room.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa learns about Maester Taras's idea for the Wall

At Sansa’s suggestion, her meeting with Maester Taras took place in the guest house presently occupied by Wyman Manderly, to spare the old man’s arthritic knees two flights of stairs. She sat in the solar with lords Wyman and Wylis, Maester Taras, and Maester Wolkan, to hear what Castle Black’s maester admitted might be a very outlandish idea.

The tall, slender man clasped his hands before him on the small round table table and, at a nod from the Queen, began. “Your Grace, my lords, my brother maester, at Lord Commander Mallister’s suggestion, I shall depart from the usual manner of the scholars at the Citadel, who lay out their evidence and reasoning before revealing their conclusion, and instead I will come straight to the point: I believe that the ruined end of the Wall could be used to generate revenue for the kingdom, by selling slabs of ice to countries with warm climates, starting with the place of my birth, The Summer Islands.”

Sansa gaped at the maester, and then looked quickly around the table to gauge the others’ reactions. Maester Wolkan’s expression, she imagined, was a mirror of her own bewilderment. Given his unchanged demeanor, Sansa wasn’t sure that Wyman Manderly had heard the soft-spoken maester.

But Lord Wylis looked intrigued and amused, leaning forward with interest and a widening smile. “I knew you must have come north for the ice!” he crowed, jabbing a finger in Taras’s direction.

Maester Taras acknowledged Lord Wylis’s jesting remark with a smile. “Indeed, it was our conversation at Castle Black about the Ibbenese whalers selling sea ice that sparked this idea in me, Lord Wylis. So if the Queen considers this a promising idea, half of the credit goes to you! But if it proves to be a foolish idea, then it is mine alone.”

Sansa shifted in her chair, at a loss. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to think yet, Maester. Can you tell us more? How … how would we sell the ice? To whom? How would it be transported to the Summer Islands or other warm countries? And why would they want to pay for it?”

Maester Taras shifted in his chair, and Sansa perceived that he might be too confined sitting at the small table. “Please, gentlemen, let’s all be at our ease. Feel free to sit or stand as is comfortable.”

The long-legged maester smiled gratefully as he pushed back from the table and rose to stand respectfully in front of the group. Everyone else remained seated at the table. After a small bow to the Queen, Taras launched into the details of his proposal. “First, let’s discuss the market for ice: warm places like The Summer Islands, Naath, and even the southern half of Essos do not ever see ice. In Yunkai or Qarth, winters are cool and wet but rarely if ever cold enough to freeze. And the summers are very hot indeed. The Ibbenese harvest ice from the Shivering Sea, primarily to use to keep their whale catches from spoiling before they can be butchered, but also, sometimes, their merchants will sell large chunks of sea ice in southern ports. It’s usually not their primary ware, as even the largest chunks are greatly reduced in size by the time they reach the market, but what remains fetches a very steep price, for it is the only ice available in those places.”

Sansa nodded with interest. King’s Landing in the summer was very warm – too warm for her taste – and during her long, lonely captivity she’d wondered idly how hot it must be to the south, in places like Dorne, or even further south in the Summer Islands. It was difficult to imagine a place that never knew snow and ice. “How do the people in your land use the ice they buy, Maester Taras?”

“An excellent question, Your Grace. At home the ice is often crushed or shaved, and served with fruit juice or wine as a refreshing treat. It is also simply a novelty. I remember as a boy my mother once had a large chunk of sea ice brought to our home, primarily for using to make iced wine for a feast she and my father were hosting. But there was a leftover hunk of ice and we children crowded around it, running our hands over it. Within a few hours it had melted away entirely.”

Taras spread his arms, “And that, Your Grace, is one of the advantages of the ice in the Wall: it is much slower to melt than sea ice. It would be easier to obtain consistently than sea ice, and we’d be better able to control the size and shape of the pieces of ice we harvest, which would make it easier to pack in ship holds.”

Sansa nodded again. She’d been curious about why Maester Taras had traveled from Castle Black to discuss something in person, and she’d never have guessed they would be talking about selling ice in foreign lands. And she found it hard to believe that Lord Commander Mallister, who intended to end his days at the Wall as a brother of the Night’s Watch, would agree to what sounded like dismantling the Wall and selling it off to make iced treats in Ebonhead and Qarth.

“Tell me, Maester Taras, what does Lord Commander Mallister think of this scheme?”

“I would not be here presenting it without his express approval, Your Grace,” Taras replied. “I believe it will be more clear once I explain how I think we might actually produce the ice that would be sold.”

“In that case, please go on, Maester,” Sansa said, looking at the Manderlys and Maester Wolkan to see if they had any questions. Everyone looked expectantly at Maester Taras.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he replied. “As I believe you may know, the men of the Night’s Watch are able to repair sections of the Wall, or to reshape small areas to accommodate tunnels and other structural modifications. As far as we know, this is something that only men whose lives are sworn in service to the Wall may do, although I would like to test this supposition before declaring it a fact. But the Wall at Eastwatch has been so broken that we do not believe it can be repaired – not by anyone living today. There are no records that detail how the Wall was built, or by whom, although my understanding is that the local history suggests it was built by one of your house’s ancestors.”

“Yes, Brandon Stark, who was called Bran the Builder, is said to have built the Wall with aid from the Children of the Forest. If it would help, I suppose we could ask my brother Bran if he can tell us anything about how the Wall was raised,” Sansa offered.

Maester Taras shook his head, “No, Your Grace, although it would be interesting to know how the Wall was originally constructed, I fear that the knowledge would not help us today, because there was almost certainly magic involved – magic that is surely beyond the means of anyone living now.”

Sansa nodded, “Yes, I think you’re right, Maester Taras. So as we'd discussed at Castle Black, the Wall at Eastwatch cannot be repaired?”

Maester Taras shook his head, “No indeed, Your Grace. The men of the Night’s Watch cannot restore that section of the Wall. But I believe that, with careful planning and oversight, the exposed ends of the Wall could be, well, I suppose we could use the word “mined,” for lack of a better word. And the remaining men of the Night’s Watch would be able to replenish the ice that is taken from Eastwatch, so that the hole in the Wall would not increase substantially in size. I’ve done some very preliminary testing at Castle Black, and I found that the Night’s Watch builders could very easily restore a section from which a block of ice has been cut and extracted. Indeed, they do this on a regular basis during the summer months – the small village of Mole Town uses chunks of ice from the Wall to line the walls of underground storage chambers in which they store food to keep it fresh. I understand that this is common practice on the farmsteads and holdfasts near the Wall.”

“Well, yes, I suppose that’s true,” Sansa acknowledged, exchanging a quick look with Maester Wolkan.

Taras nodded enthusiastically, “So you see, Your Grace, if ice from the exposed ends of the Wall at Eastwatch were extracted, it could be packed in ships at the harbor Lord Manderly would like to construct there, and sent to southern markets. And the Night’s Watch would be able to restore the extracted ice within a matter of hours or a few days, depending on how much is removed.”

Wyman Manderly spoke up, and Sansa realized he’d been following everything that was said without difficulty. “This is an interesting possibility, Maester. How big do you think the cut ice might be? One square foot? Ten?”

Maester Tara considered for a moment, and then offered, “I think the ice could be cut in a variety of sizes. The advantage to cutting larger pieces is that they will be the slowest to melt, but smaller cuts could be more readily sold to those who only wish to buy a smaller amount.”

Wylis Manderly interjected with a smile, “You might be a maester, Taras Qoqu, but you’re clearly a merchant’s son. You speak our language.” He looked at his father, who nodded approvingly.

Maester Taras smiled and bowed. “You flatter me, Lord Wylis. But I did learn enough while a youth on my father’s ships to believe that this could be a lucrative undertaking.”

Sansa had followed the exchange with interest. A dozen questions swirled in her head; she wasn’t sure if any of them were relevant or important questions, and so she hesitated to interrupt the discussion. But it was her prerogative as queen to make sure that she understood all of the relevant factors at hand – even if that meant asking questions that were self-evident to those who knew more than she did, “This is a fascinating proposal that I could never have imagined until you described it, Maester Taras. I have several questions. 

“The first is, how will the Ibbenese react when we bring our ice to southern markets? I must admit that I know very little about that nation. From this discussion I have the impression that hitherto they’ve been the only ones selling ice, and it sounds like they must go to some lengths to harvest it from the Shivering Sea. Would they not resent us for giving them competition?”

Lord Wylis responded before Maester Taras could. “I don’t imagine there would be much fuss from the Ibbenese, Your Grace, although they are a curious people who are impossible to predict with certainty. But I believe that sea ice is not a large portion of their trade, nor do I believe that they go to the trouble of harvesting sea ice solely for the purpose of selling it in the south. My understanding is that they collect sea ice primarily as a means of preserving their whale catches, and after it has served that purpose, if the ice is still intact and in good condition they’ll pack it into trading ships that are already bound for southern ports with other wares.”

Maester Taras nodded, “And since any piece of ice has a very limited existence, I think there would still be demand for their sea ice.”

Wyman Manderly interjected, “But quite possibly at a lower price than they’re used to getting. Ice in southern lands is already a luxury good that few can afford, so even though the ice we’ll be selling will be of better quality than the sea ice the Ibbenese sell, we won’t be able to charge much more for it than they already charge, at least if we hope to have a steady demand for it. That might require the Ibbenese reduce the price of their ice, since it will be of an inferior quality.”

Maester Wolkan spoke up for the first time, “My lord, I know little about commerce, but if I may, given the ephemeral nature of ice in hot climes, couldn’t the seller set the price as he likes? It’s not something that buyers can stock up on when the prices are good.”

Lord Manderly replied, “Yes, and the Ibbenese might very well do just that. It doesn’t generate good will between buyer and seller when the seller charges the same price for what is known to be a lesser product, but in a seller’s market it’s at his discretion.” He turned to Sansa, “At any rate, Your Grace, I agree with my son that the Ibbenese are unlikely pose a problem for our endeavor.”

Sansa nodded. “Very well. My next question is this: If we find success in selling ice from the Wall, how will we stop others from extracting ice on their own and selling it? Neither the North nor the Night’s Watch has the manpower to guard the entire length of the Wall.”

Maester Taras replied, “Another excellent question, Your Grace. I do still need to confirm that only those whose lives are sworn to the Wall can work with the ice – either to extract it or to replenish it. But if that is so – and the evidence so far suggests that it is – then no one would be able to steal ice from the Wall to sell for their own profit.”

“Thank you, Maester. And here is my last question, although it has two parts. Firstly, I believe you said that this venture could generate significant revenue for the realm, but if this operation would require the labor of men sworn to the Night’s Watch and the Wall, wouldn’t the Night’s Watch keep all of the profit? Secondly how would the venture be sustained as the Night’s Watch shrinks in size and its members grow old?”

Maester Taras smiled, “The first question is easily answered: Lord Commander Mallister proposes to split the income with Winterfell. He is very cognizant of the care and consideration Your Grace has shown the Night’s Watch, and the support you have promised to those who choose to remain at the Wall. This endeavor is full of many uncertainties as yet, but it could not move forward without your permission and cooperation. If it succeeds, the Night’s Watch may not need much material support from Winterfell. But until such time as it turns a profit, we are very much dependent on your generosity and friendship, so it seems only fair to offer you what we can, which is half the profits. We hope you will agree that this is a fair and reasonable plan.”

Sansa smiled in return, “I shall take it under consideration, Maester Taras.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. And now for the second part of your question, which is something I had not thought of, but you are very right to ask. I do not know how the venture would be sustained over the long run as the men of the Night’s Watch age and eventually die.”

No one spoke for a few moments, then Lord Wylis suggested, “This is indeed something that we’d have to address in the long run. But I believe we can put it off for a little while, because it won’t be an issue at all if this venture is not successful.”

Maester Taras and Maester Wolkan both nodded in agreement. Sansa sat silently a bit longer, and then rose. Maester Wolkan and Lord Wylis followed suit and Sansa turned to Lord Manderly as he started to hoist himself from his chair, “Please do not rise on my account, sir. Your age affords you the privilege of keeping your seat.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. I’d trade that privilege for a good pair of knees!” Everyone laughed.

Sansa turned to Maester Taras, “Thank you, Maester, for this most unexpected and intriguing proposal. I will give it some thought. We will speak again on the morrow.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Taras replied with a bow.

Lord Manderly spoke up. “Your Grace, what about your cousin - will you consult with him about this? I’d rather expected that he’d have been on hand for this discussion, but since he was not, I imagine you’ll confer with him as you deliberate? With a good-daughter like Leonora and granddaughters like my two girls I’m all too aware that ladies can be just as wise and able as any man when it comes to strategy and planning. But given that Jon Snow was once King – and might be again, eh? – I’d think you might want to get his view of the matter, to make sure he’s in agreement.”

Sansa stiffened as she listened to Lord Manderly’s well-intentioned, if condescending, advice. She looked over at Maester Wolkan. His face was a mask of deliberate impassivity but his eyes met hers and she saw sympathy. She knew that Lord Manderly had intended no offense, but she didn’t want to encourage him to think that she would be deferring to her husband, whoever he might be, in her decisions. She made sure her voice was calm and even as she replied, “The maester has given me much to consider. If I have further questions I shall apply to him, or to you and Lord Wylis, Lord Manderly. Thank you, all. I shall bid you good evening.”


	13. Chapter 13

Sansa was half-awake when her maid, Calla, slipped into her bedroom to quietly light a small fire to ward off the dawn chill that was common in Winterfell even at the height of summer.

Sansa yawned and stretched as she sat up. After getting the fire underway, Calla rose and turned to face her mistress, then bobbed a quick curtsy. “Good morning, Your Grace. I hope you slept well.” She then walked to the windows and started to open the shutters.

“Well enough, thank you, Calla. How does the weather look today?”

“It’s just waiting to rain, I think,” Calla replied with a shiver.

“Well I suppose it was too much to hope that the fine weather would last another day,” Sansa replied as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She slid her feet into a waiting pair of slippers, and stood with another long stretch, then grabbed a woolen wrap before walking across the room to sit at her dressing table. As she settled in front of the looking glass, she observed Calla shiver again and pull her shawl closer as she finished opening the third window. 

She’d found Calla in King’s Landing, homeless and friendless after the brothel she’d lived and worked in since she was eight had been burned in the Dragon’s Sack. Sansa had quickly taken to Calla, and was grateful for her deft fingers. Calla was skilled both with a needle and in dressing hair - her primary occupations for her first years in the brothel, while her older sister had been one of its most popular, and expensive, whores. Calla had eventually graduated to prostitution herself, but she hadn’t found her sister’s success - which was why she’d been on an errand at the cloth market that fateful morning, while her sister had entertained one of her regular customers. No one had made it out of the brothel alive. Calla had been very glad to join Sansa’s household and get far away from the smoldering ruins of King’s Landing, but Sansa worried that she might not be cut out for Northern winters, given how sensitive she was to cold.

Sansa undid the ribbon that secured her loose night plait, and shook out her hair. Calla picked up the brush and gently began to run it through long strands of auburn hair. “Do you have a dress in mind for the day, Your Grace?”

“No, nothing special today. I shall meet again with the Manderly men and with Castle Black’s maester, but I don’t think that calls for any special attire.”

“I’ve nearly finished the green chambray dress,” Calla noted. “In fact I might have it done today, unless Lady Manderly will need me, if her Bessa is still unwell.”

“I shall be glad to have a new dress, but there’s no rush, Calla. Thank you for helping Lady Manderly. I think the light grey dress will do nicely today.”

“Very well, Your Grace,” Calla replied, turning toward the wardrobe. She returned with the grey dress and a white underdress draped on one arm, and a clean set of smallclothes in her hand. Sansa shrugged out of her nightgown and donned the undergarments Calla handed her. She then bent so Calla could slip the underdress over her head, followed by the silvery grey dress. Then Sansa sat once more so that Calla could dress her hair.

“Will you wear your hair down today, Your Grace?”

Sansa stared at her reflection for a moment before answering. “No, I think just the usual braid. And then perhaps you should go see if Lady Manderly will need you today. On your way please ask the kitchen to send my breakfast up here.” 

Calla neatly finished the braid, and bobbed a curtsy before leaving the room. 

Sansa was still sitting at her dressing table, lost in thought, when someone knocked on the door. “Enter,” she called, expecting her breakfast. Instead, the door opened and Wynafryd and Wylla Manderly peeked in at her.

“We knew you were up, Your Grace, since you sent Calla to help Mother.”

“Oh, do come in. I’m glad you’ve come. I’d thought to go to your mother’s chambers after I’d had breakfast, so you must have read my mind.”

Wynafryd was tall like Sansa, with pretty chestnut hair, grey eyes, and a charming set of dimples. Wylla’s hair would have been a light flaxen blonde had she not dyed it green. She shared her sister’s eye-color and dimples, but was several inches shorter.

The sisters exchanged a knowing look, before Wynafryd said in a deceptively mild voice. “Is that so, Your Grace? Is there something in particular you’d like to discuss?” She could no longer maintain a disinterested facade, her dimples on display as she smiled widely at Sansa.

Sansa’s answering smile suggested that Wynafryd had guessed rightly. She headed into the adjoining solar, and the sisters followed.

Just as they seated themselves at the small table, a servant knocked briskly and entered with a tray bearing bread, butter, fruit, cheese, and a pitcher of water. “Have you eaten yet?” Sansa asked.

“No, and I’m famished!” Wylla exclaimed as she reached for a pear. Sansa and Wynafryd exchanged an amused look. Wynafryd watched as Sansa daintily buttered a slice of bread, and then said, “I’m going to burst with curiosity if you don’t tell us about your meeting with your cousin. I wasn’t in the courtyard when he arrived, so I missed his vow to you, but it sounded so romantic!”

Sansa smiled and blushed prettily. “Well, I suppose it was. I wasn’t thinking that at the time, I was just so happy to see him. I’d missed him so, and so much had happened that, well, I -”

Having swallowed a mouthful of pear, Wylla interruped. “Sansa, Your Grace, you know that Wynafryd and I love you to bits. And we know that you love your cousin even more than that. Anyone who didn’t already know that surely saw it yesterday.”

Wynafryd nodded, “It’s true. And after seeing the way he looked at you during the feast, I’m quite sure that he returns your feelings.”

Sansa’s smile widened as her blush deepened. “You’re both right. I’d never imagined that he did … but … he said that he’s been in love with me for years!”

Wylla wrinkled her nose, “Even when he thought you were his sister?”

Sansa sobered quickly, “He never acted on it, and it pained and shamed him to feel the things he did for me when he believed I was his sister. I’ve already told you that he and I weren’t close growing up - Jon and Robb were always outside, training and riding and hunting. They weren’t interested in the things I loved as a child - songs or stories or poetry.”

“Well I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he produces a poem for you now. It will probably be dreadful. Does he sing?” Wylla asked dryly.

Sansa giggled, shaking her head. “No! Don’t be ridiculous.” She grew serious again, “And nothing is settled between us. Yet.”

“Did you ask him?” Wynafryd asked. “I thought you were planning to wait.”

“I was! But somehow as we were talking it just came up. And that’s when he told me that he’d been in love with me - and that he’d never loved her …”

“Conveniently the Dragon Queen is dead, and so cannot contest that statement,” Wylla noted.

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, “What does that mean?”

Wylla sighed, “I saw the way he was looking at you yesterday, and I agree with Wyn that it does seem that he returns your feelings. And I’m glad of it Sansa, I truly am. But you’re the Queen now, and he stands to gain much if he marries you. Just as he stood to gain much if he’d married the Dragon Queen. He told you he’d never loved her … but what did he say to her when she was alive? Don’t be annoyed with me! We saw him with her when they landed at White Harbor. Thank goodness you’d sent a raven alerting Grandfather to the fact that Jon Snow was returning as a mere Warden of the North, no longer a King. Wyn and I went with Grandfather to the quay. At his instruction most of the townsfolk kept in their houses, but someone had to come out to greet the Dragon Queen and her minions. She was proud and haughty, and Jon Snow stood at her side, arm in arm.”

Wylla’s dimples appeared as she reminisced, “Grandfather wasn’t so crippled that he couldn’t have walked, but he had his servants carry him down on a litter that day, so no eyebrows were raised when he didn’t kneel to the Dragon Queen. I watched Jon Snow and he looked displeased at the meager turnout. He kept his eyes on her throughout.”

Wynafryd broke in reprovingly, “You are not painting a true picture of that day, Wylla, and you know it! He did watch her closely, but he never smiled - not at her, nor at anyone else. I would say that he looked not so much displeased as worried that White Harbor had not turned out to cheer their arrival.”

“If he was worried about what she might do he never should have brought her here,” Wylla retorted.

Sansa looked sharply at her friend, “He had no choice. She’d been holding him captive on Dragonstone for months. The only way he could return himself was by convincing her to come here. And he thought that her dragons were our best chance of beating the Night King. I cannot fault him for that, and since you never laid eyes on the Army of the Dead, Wylla, you’re in no position to judge him.”

“Fine, that’s as may be. But he played a doting lover to the Dragon Queen - his aunt, ugh! - when it suited him. And Wyn is right, the way he watched her in White Harbor was very different from the way he looks at you. But I just can’t help but think how convenient it is that he only professed his love for you once you became Queen in the North.”

Sansa frowned, “But he thought we were brother and sister! _I_ thought we were brother and sister! He could hardly tell me that he was in love with me. And by the time he learned the truth, the Army of the Dead was nearly upon us. And then he had to uphold his end of the bargain he’d struck with his aunt.”

Wylla pursed her lips, “All right, all right. I’m not trying to spoil your happiness, Sansa, I promise you I’m not. But I don’t see how he could be the Dragon Queen’s lover if he was really in love with you all along.”

“Don’t be so naive, Wylla. Marriages are arranged all the time, regardless of how the two people feel about each other, and despite any feelings they might have for other people. I very nearly ended up married to one of Walder Frey’s grandsons, and I would have been if Father hadn’t been miraculously freed from The Twins without the marriage. I could never have loved a Frey but I would have had to share a bed with one if we’d wed,” Wynafryd exclaimed.

“I’d have run off to Bravos or Pentos before marrying a Frey,” Wylla declared stoutly.

“Not if Father’s life hung in the balance. You’d have agreed to it, just as I did,” Wynafryd pointed out.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Wylla grumbled.

Sansa sighed, “I was forced into two marriages to men I didn’t love, and I had to pretend to love - or at least like - two others who had power over me or whose assistance I was forced to rely upon. Jon has been through so much and has done his best throughout. I truly believed he was in love with the Dragon Queen when she was here. But I believe him when he says that he was not. And I understand that he did what he thought was necessary to keep the North safe.

“So, while I appreciate your wish to protect me from being used by someone, Wylla, I wish you’d believe me when I tell you that Jon is not trying to use me. On the contrary, he’s worried that he is unworthy of marrying me, because of all the mistakes he’s made. I know you think he’s going to try to supplant me in ruling the North, but he’s been very clear that he doesn’t want to be king. He never wanted it, and when he was king he worried that he wasn’t doing a good job.

“In fact, I’m more worried that men like your grandfather will try to put him - or whomever I end up marrying - above me, because they believe a woman must always defer to her husband’s judgement. Even a queen.”

“What? What did Grandfather do that makes you say that?” Wylla demanded. Wynafryd looked troubled.

Sansa sighed again, and pushed back from the table to start pacing, “Last night, at the end of the discussion we were having with Maester Taras, Lord Manderly told me that he assumed I’d want to consult with Jon before reaching an important decision, since Jon had once been king and, as he put it “might be again.” He was surprised that I'd held the meeting without Jon. He said I should get Jon’s view of the matter, “to make sure he’s in agreement,” because apparently my judgement isn’t enough, if there’s a man nearby who could weigh in.

Wylla sprang up from the table sputtering angrily, while Wynafryd gasped “What?! I can’t believe he’d -.” A knock on the door quickly silenced the Manderly sisters.

The three young women exchanged a look as they calmed themselves. Sansa called, “Enter.”

Lady Leonora opened the door and came into the room. She bowed her head to Sansa, saying, “Good morning, Your Grace. Thank you so much for sending your Calla to me. I’m afraid Bessa is still laid up, although Maester Wolkan thinks it’s nothing serious.” She looked between the three faces before her, and her demeanor became more alert, “What is going on? What is amiss?”

Wylla opened her mouth to launch to a fiery denunciation of her grandfather’s tactlessness, but Wynafryd forestalled her, with an arm on her shoulder. Lady Leonora’s elder daughter then calmly recounted what Sansa had just told them, while Sansa stared at the floor in chagrin. Leonora’s face relaxed and when Wynafryd had finished, she rolled her eyes with a small groan. She then turned to Sansa.

“On behalf of my good-father, Your Grace, I do beg your pardon. I can assure you that he did not mean to be so terribly condescending - although I have little doubt that he was! You have already had a very eventful life for a woman your age, but I wonder how many old men you’ve encountered. I can tell you this: Lord Manderly has a very high opinion of your intelligence and abilities. I suspect he also fancies that if he were twenty years younger - perhaps thirty - that he’d be a contender for your hand. Not because he wants a crown for himself, but because you are so very lovely and are a very admirable young woman. You make him feel how old he is. I daresay half the men in this castle are half in love with you. My good-father would never try to act on what you’ve stirred in him - he’d be the first to say that he’s far too old for you. But sometimes old men can be foolish in front of a pretty young woman. I’m sure that’s what was really behind his words last night. I shall speak with him about it.”

“Oh I’m not sure there’s a need, Lady Leonora,” Sansa said quickly. “It sounds like something best forgotten.”

“No, I don’t think so, Your Grace,” Leonora replied firmly. “Lord Manderly has no experience with queens - this is new to all of us! - and he’ll want to know that his words to you were hurtful. He’s quite devoted to you, you know, and wants nothing more than to spend the remainder of his years helping you restore prosperity to the North.”

Sansa smiled, a bit teary. “And I’m grateful for his help. And all of yours - your daughters have become like sisters to me. And while I shall always miss my own mother, I count myself very fortunate to have you here with me in Winterfell, Lady Leonora.”

Leonora recognized a young woman in need of a hug, “Come here, dear girl.” She enveloped Sansa in a warm embrace, “I hope you know how proud Cat would be of you. She loved both of her girls but she took such pleasure in how accomplished you were, how you always carried yourself like a lady, and were kind to all. She would not be at all surprised to see how you’ve succeeded in restoring Winterfell, and the North, and she would be so terribly proud.”

Sansa melted into the older woman’s arms, and to everyone’s surprise began to weep in earnest. Leonora held her as she cried, and Wynafryd went into Sansa’s bedchamber to find a handkerchief. Eventually Sansa’s sobs subsided, and she stepped back from Leonora with a mumbled apology. Leonora took her hand and led her back to the table, had her sit, then pulled a chair close so that she sat facing Sansa. She poured water from the pitcher and handed the cup to Sansa, who obediently sipped it. Wynafryd handed her mother a handkerchief, and she dipped a corner of it into the pitcher, moistening half of the cloth. When Sansa put the cup down, Leonora gently wiped her face with the wet end of the handkerchief, then handed it to her. Sansa dabbed at her eyes, and blew her nose.

Leonora took her hand. “Better?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sansa nodded. Wylla stood behind her chair, and wrapped her arms loosely around Sansa’s shoulders. Sansa nuzzled her cheek against Wylla’s arm. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I never cry like that anymore. I think it was … I almost always feel so alone. I’m so grateful to have you here at Winterfell with me, and I’m so very happy that Jon has returned. But I think I’ve been alone for so long that, even though I know I’m _not_ alone, I often feel as though I am. But just now I knew I wasn’t alone, that you are all here with me. And perhaps Mother is here too, in some way. And I was overwhelmed by it.”

Leonora smiled and nodded. “You’ve been very brave for a very long time. There aren’t many who could survive all that you have and not be ruined by it. And you have had to suffer many losses and separations.” Her voice turned even softer, “And now Jon is back? And it’s a good thing but maybe it’s not quite like you’d imagined it would be?”

Sansa smiled gratefully. “Yes, that’s it too. When we were here before, he and I, before he left for Dragonstone, we talked all the time. And then he left, and everything changed. There was no “us” anymore, the way there had been. I knew I had to fight for the North, no matter what he was doing with the Dragon Queen. And then I had to fight for him. I’ve spent the last year trying to rebuild and restore, and trying to get him back to Winterfell. I thought it would go back to the way it was between us. But it can’t. And not just because … our feelings for each other … have changed, but he … I am queen now, and he is no longer king. I love him. I cannot imagine marrying anyone else. But he doesn’t know if he can marry me. What if he can’t? And, if he does, how will it be for him to no longer be king in his own right, to only be king because he’s married to me?”

Sansa hung her head, and didn’t speak for several moments. Leonora remained silent, watching her. Then Sansa looked up, staring ahead of her sightlessly, “Yesterday I thought I had everything I’d ever wanted - and more after Jon and I spoke. But today … I don’t feel like I do. His love for me might not be enough to overcome the guilt he feels about what his aunt did.”

Leonora pursed her lips, “These things take time. He’s only been back just a day. There’s much he must adjust to. Give him time, and give yourself space. This venture with the Wall that Wyllis told me about last night - what do you think?”

“Ah. Yes. I think that … it couldn’t hurt to try, surely. I shall need to confer with Maester Taras to learn more about what must be done to set it up. The only hurdle I can imagine is if it would be very costly to undertake. But nothing I heard yesterday leads me to think that it will be.” Sansa had perked up a bit.

Leonora let go of Sansa’s hand, and rose to her feet. “Focus on what you can work on right now. But don’t be afraid to let yourself feel things when you need to. A good cry now and then can do quite a bit of good. Although it's usually best for us women when the crying is done in private, at least where men like my good father can’t see and think themselves stronger for never crying. Speaking of Lord Manderly …” she strode to the door, “I shall go now and make sure he’s had his breakfast. And then I’ll have a word with him.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon spends a night thinking in the godswood

After a few hours of restless tossing and turning in his bedchamber Jon had gone out to sit in the godswood, with Ghost’s quiet companionship. He’d been drawn somewhat unwillingly to the place, the heart of Winterfell and the Stark family. The past year had given him plenty of time to think about his choices and his mistakes, and one of the things that weighed most heavily on him was the unshakeable sense that he’d failed to do the very thing he’d devoted more than a year of his life to - had in fact once sacrificed his life for. But for all that, he’d been almost irrelevant when the moment came. He hadn’t even been where he was meant to be. Arya had been the one to save Bran, and all of Westeros, by killing the Night King. 

Now Jon stood in the spot where he’d found Arya and Bran, safe, surrounded by heaps of inert corpses, old and new, and bits of shattered ice. 

_The two of them had been sitting calmly under Winterfell’s weirwood tree, Bran in his wheeled chair, Arya on the ground beside him. Arya was rubbing her throat in an off-handed manner quite at odds with the enormity of what she’d just done. But in that moment Jon had been overwhelmed by relief and joy at seeing both of them alive and seemingly whole. He’d rushed to them and had awkwardly tried to hug them both at once. Arya had obligingly risen to her feet to facilitate the embrace. But she was very distant and it was then that Jon first became aware of the emotional chasm between him and his younger sister._

The godswood was no longer in the grip of winter. The weirwood’s leaves rustled in a gentle night breeze, stirring memories of his Uncle Ned once sitting in the very spot that he now sat. Ned Stark, who’d lived a lie to protect Jon and had forced an unwitting Jon to live that lie too. But that was one issue Jon could happily lay to rest: faced with the same choice, Jon had little doubt that he’d have done the same thing. The best choice among imperfect options, done for others’ benefit. For Jon’s benefit.

What would Ned Stark think of the choices he’d made? Would he have been able to forgive, knowing that Jon’s intentions had been good? But then, Daenerys’s intentions had been good. Or so she’d always claimed. 

The defeat of the Night King had exposed the full measure of Jon’s mistakes: all of his efforts to prevent the Night King from attacking the North, from threatening his people and those he loved most had not only been ineffective, they’d been counterproductive. Instead of the Army of the Dead, another deadly threat had taken up residence at Winterfell, at Jon’s invitation. Rather than protecting his family, he’d put them in far more danger than they’d ever have been in if he’d never gone south to Dragonstone. 

He hadn’t fully made sense of what Sansa had told him she’d learned from Bran. But intuitively he knew it was right, that it answered some of the questions that had plagued him for the last year. Whatever the cause of the recurring dreams he’d had about the Night King, they were what had set him on the terrible path to becoming his murderous aunt’s unwilling accomplice. He bore tremendous guilt over what had happened at King’s Landing. But he’d kept Winterfell safe. He’d kept Sansa safe. Those were the vows that mattered most to him - and he felt quite sure they were the vows that would have mattered most to Ned Stark.

_After embracing his siblings - he could never think of Arya or Bran as anything else - Jon asked what had transpired. Had Bran used magic to defeat the Night King? He’d been speechless when Bran had outlined the fateful moments in the godswood, starting with the Night King killing Theon with his ice spear, which had been enough of a distraction to allow Arya to slip in past the White Walkers unseen, and to position herself to launch her fatal attack._

_Jon’s relief quickly turned cold as Bran had quite casually observed that, it turned out, the dragons were of little use against the Night King, who was impervious to fire and could easily replenish his forces by raising more of the dead. Like those buried in the crypts … Jon had turned to run back toward the castle when he saw a group hurrying into the godswood, led by Sansa. She’d drawn up short ten feet from where he stood with Bran and Arya. The relief and joy on her face was a mirror of what Jon felt at seeing her. She’d rushed towards them and he met her half-way, in an embrace that he’d never forget: the first time he’d held her knowing that she wasn’t his sister and that what he felt for her wasn’t despicable and low._

_She’d been accompanied by Tyrion and Missandei, who’d demanded to know where Daenerys was. Jon couldn’t tell them; Arya didn’t bother to respond. But Bran directed them to look outside the castle’s north gate, where they’d find their queen mourning the fallen Jorah Mormont. “So Ser Jorah was killed by the Night King?” Missandei of Naath had asked. Bran replied in his usual flat, disinterested tone, “No, Ser Jorah was killed by wights. He never engaged the Night King. Your queen briefly tried to, but she soon discovered that not even her dragons could touch him, and she was forced to retreat lest he kill the dragon she rode, and her as well. It was my sister, Arya, who killed the Night King, in this very spot.” Stunned to learn that her mistress was not the battle’s heroine, Missandei had turned and silently followed Tyrion out of the godswood to find Daenerys._

_Jon had not gone with them, nor did he seek Daenerys out in the days that immediately followed, days of heartbreak as they discovered those who had fallen, and mind-numbing labor as the survivors piled up the dead onto pyres and started to set the castle to rights. It was easy enough to avoid his aunt - she’d retreated to mourn Ser Jorah in her chambers, not emerging until they were ready to light the pyres. He imagined that Missandei - or perhaps Tyrion - had informed Daenerys that Arya had been the one to take down the Night King. She’d been quite subdued during the somber funeral, her grief for Ser Jorah still evident._

_After the funeral Jon had continued to avoid her as much as he could, to forestall the inevitable confrontation: her forces had suffered grave losses, and Rhaegal was quite badly injured. And it was all for nothing. She’d come to the North believing she was needed, that she would be its savior. But she’d been as irrelevant as Jon himself during the battle._

_Worse, she’d learned that she was not the last living Targaryen, and that Jon’s claim to the thing she cared the most about in this world was stronger than hers. Jon had been keen to postpone that conversation for as long as possible._

_Given that, the discussion they’d had after the funeral feast, when she’d come uninvited to his room, had been something of a relief, because it was not as bad as it could have been. She didn’t accuse him of luring her North under false pretenses, nor of duplicitously hiding the fact of his parentage so that he could get close to her and her dragons - perhaps even to steal a dragon from her. Instead she was focused on keeping his parentage a secret so that her claim to the Iron Throne would remain unchallenged. Jon was very happy to assure her that he had no ambition for the Iron Throne - and that should have resolved the matter. But his aunt had developed a strong dislike for Sansa, whose stubborn resistance to the Dragon Queen had taken Jon by surprise. And so, although he’d not had to contend with a furious Dragon Queen spitting accusations at him, it was clear that the best thing for the North, and for his family, would be to get Daenerys out of Winterfell as quickly as possible._

As dawn approached Jon stood and stretched. Ghost rose too, and Jon bent down to scratch behind his ears. Jon was weary, but felt more at peace than he had in a long time. It was so good to be home. So much was still unclear and he knew the guilt he felt about King’s Landing would never go away. But he didn’t feel consumed by self-recriminations and adrift in confusion. It was a start.

Ghost cocked his ears, suddenly alert. In the faint grey light Jon saw someone entering the godswood through its main gate. The figure - a man - headed towards the steaming pools that were fed by the hot springs which ran under Winterfell. Jon peered more closely, and then recognized Maester Wolkan. They approached the maester, Ghost padding silently as always, but Jon made sure that his own steps were not silent, alerting Wolkan to their presence. Wolkan was crouched before the springs but turned, startled, and then relaxed as Jon drew near. 

Still crouching, Maester Wolkan bowed his head respectfully, and greeted Jon, “Good morning, sir.” Ghost approached to sniff and then lick the gentle maester, whom he’d not seen in more than a year. Wolkan petted him affectionately.

Jon smiled, “Good morning, maester. You’re up with the birds.”

“Yes, I’ve come to harvest some moss from the rocks here at the spring.”

“Ah. Moss?”

Wolkan elaborated as he resumed his task, “I’m making a soothing poultice for Lord Manderly’s knees.”

“Ah. That’s ... very kind of you. You like him, then, Lord Manderly?”

Wolkan paused in his work and then turned to look up at Jon. “He is a good man, I think.”

“Sansa says so too. I trust her judgement and I trust yours too, maester. You’ve been a good friend to her and the Starks. I’m glad she’s had you here with her in Winterfell this past year.”

Wolkan rose, brushing off his hands on his robe. “It is my honor to serve the Queen. In fact, the greatest honor of my life was to be the one to place the crown upon her head, since none of her kin were here.”

Jon nodded. Maester Wolkan was a quiet, discreet man who never put himself forward and only spoke when necessary. Sansa had told him how the maester had helped her during the awful months of her marriage to Ramsay Bolton, and Jon had quickly perceived the man’s watchfulness in the days after they’d retaken Winterfell. Jon was reasonably certain that Wolkan had mistrusted him at first, and initially he’d feared that the maester had somehow discerned the shameful feelings and urges he felt towards Sansa. But after a few weeks the maester’s wariness had given way to the quiet respect he also had for Sansa. 

“Thank you for supporting her, Maester Wolkan, when I could not.”

Wolkan nodded gravely, and started to turn back to the moss. But he stopped himself and straightened, before observing, “But you’re here now to support her.”

“I am. I will devote my life to protecting her, as I promised her long ago I would do.”

“That is good, my lord. But you can support her in other ways too.”

“What do you mean?”

Wolkan looked him squarely in the eye. “Do you love her?”

Jon was startled but unoffended by the maester’s surprisingly blunt question. “Aye, I do. Is it that obvious?”

Wolkan smiled, “I thought it was two years ago, when you’d regained Winterfell from the Boltons. And I think it is very apparent now.”

Jon sighed, “I’m not sure how that allows me to support her. I don’t see how having a husband who, among other things, is a kin-slaying Targaryen who was present for the destruction of King’s Landing will help Sansa’s rule. I bring nothing that a queen needs - no alliances, no wealth, no lands, no connections.”

Wolkan’s gaze was steady, “But you love her, and you want to help and protect her. You wouldn’t try to undermine her authority or claim it for yourself.”

Jon frowned, “One of the Manderly girls is convinced that I’ve come back to Winterfell in order to steal Sansa’s crown for myself. That’s the last thing I want to do, but if we married it would look as though that were exactly my aim.”

Wolkan nodded thoughtfully, still watching Jon’s face intently. “But the Queen knows she can trust you. And that knowledge and trust might be more valuable to her than wealth or lands would be. She is well-loved by her people - the lords and the common folk alike. She is a good woman, a just woman, and wise beyond her years. But she is a woman, and even her staunchest supporters - men like Lord Manderly - expect that she will yield to her husband’s judgement when she marries. That is the way of things, in the North or elsewhere.”

“That’s not right! No one has fought more tirelessly for the North than Sansa. Starting with the Boltons. I would have been just as happy to leave the North, leave for somewhere warm. I was so tired of fighting. But she convinced me of the need - and she was right.”

Wolkan nodded briefly, but said nothing.

Jon drew a breath and then sighed. “Thank you, Maester, for telling me this. Sansa has already accomplished so much in just a year, and is loved by her people, so I’d just assumed that her reign is secure. It hadn’t occurred to me that a marriage could jeopardize her rule. One way or another, I will do what I can to ensure that her authority isn’t compromised.”

“Thank you, sir,” Maester Wolkan replied. 

“Good day, maester,” Jon said as he turned back to the castle, leaving Wolkan to his moss-gathering.

Jon worked over the implications of what Wolkan had shared. Besides Sansa, Jon’s only point of reference when it came to queens was Daenerys, whose followers had been unquestionably subordinate to her. But, of course, she’d had dragons. Based on the pieces of her life history that she’d divulged, he’d gathered that her marriage to Khal Drogo had not been one of equals - her influence had depended on his indulgence. After his death and the birth of her dragons, Daenerys Targaryen had never had a companion, man or woman, lover or friend, whom she viewed as her equal. She’d mistaken the power her dragons had lent her for being right, for knowing what was good and what ought to be. She’d thought she need answer to no one … until the very end, when she’d answered to him for her countless crimes.

But Sansa hadn’t won her crown by forcing her rule on people, or by threatening violence. She’d been chosen: because she was a Stark, because she was committed to the North and its people, and because she was smart and tenacious in pursuing their interests. Jon had already seen what she was capable of, and he knew that his cousin was far more creative in solving the North’s problems than he’d have been. When he’d been king he’d tried to emulate what he thought Ned Stark would have done. Had his rule continued, he’d have followed traditions whenever possible, seeking to retain and restore. He’d never have dreamed of allowing the surviving members of the Night’s Watch the choices she was offering them.

She didn’t deserve to be overridden by a husband. The North didn’t deserve to have its queen overshadowed. And yet, Jon knew very well that Wolkan was right: most husbands would not live easily with a wife who could overrule them. Their pride would not allow it. The only way a husband wouldn’t be a threat to Sansa’s rule was if she married someone who was determined to not be a threat. 

Jon knew all too well how beautiful, charming, witty, and warm his cousin was, but even he could recognize that most of Sansa’s suitors would be first drawn to her crown and the power to be obtained by marrying her. Many men might be perceptive enough to recognize her intelligence and respect her judgement, but very few would be willing to stifle their pride and admit that she might be smarter than they were. But Jon had already learned the peril of disregarding Sansa’s advice, he had no doubt that she was smarter than he was, and no qualms about admitting it.

Suddenly the proposal she’d made last night didn’t seem so impossible. He still wasn’t sure that his past deeds and Targaryen blood wouldn’t create difficulties, but he could see now that he might offer Sansa more than his sword and a vow to protect her at all costs. 

Just as he and Ghost reached his chambers, the restlessness that had accompanied his weariness receded, and Jon suddenly felt overwhelmingly sleepy. He pulled the shutters closed to keep out the daylight, stripped off his clothes, and climbed into his bed. He was sound asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion explains some things to Yara

Tyrion sighed as he stood at one of the tall windows in Casterly Rock’s Great Hall, watching Yara Greyjoy disembark at the dock at the base of the sheer rock face. He was not looking forward to this meeting; he’d never met a Greyjoy he’d liked. Some of that was the residue of ancient animosities between the proud lords of Casterly Rock and the marauding pirate princes of the Iron Isles. But mostly Tyrion’s dislike of the Greyjoys he’d met, including Yara, was due to their air of sullen cockiness, their tendency to bleat about their rights and the respect due their position, while brazenly disregarding others’ rights to property, life, and limb. Tywin Lannister had held Balon Greyjoy in utter contempt as an ineffectual malcontent who overestimated his abilities and significance. From what Tyrion had observed on his first trip to Winterfell in Robert’s entourage, Theon Greyjoy had entered manhood following in his father’s footsteps, casually cruel, overconfident, and overreaching. 

But Theon was almost unrecognizable when he’d arrived a few years later with his sister in Meereen to offer ships in exchange for Daenerys’s support of Yara’s claim to the Salt Throne. And Tyrion had thought that perhaps a Greyjoy _woman_ might not be as prone to fatal hubris and an outsized sense of importance that were the telltale traits of her male kin. Sadly, Yara had quickly demonstrated that she was cut from the same Greyjoy cloth: she’d come to Daenerys seeking assistance to oust Euron Greyjoy from the Iron Islands, and to be installed in his stead on the Salt Throne, conveniently ignoring that the Salt Throne did not exist in the united Seven Kingdoms that Daenerys meant to rule. Customarily leadership among the Ironborn went to the strongest and most ruthless - and that was Euron, not Yara. But Yara sought to both circumvent her people’s customs and ask Daenerys to reduce her own ambition in order to accommodate Yara’s “right” to rule the Iron Islands. Even as he recognized the tactical value of an alliance with the Greyjoys and their much-needed ships, Tyrion had been astonished by the nerve of the Greyjoy siblings’ proposition.

Daenerys, however, had been surprisingly amenable to Yara’s proposal. She was singularly focused on invading Westeros, and Yara was offering her the means to do so. Moreover, Tyrion later realized, Daenerys couldn’t have located the Iron Islands on a map, and cared very little about them or the people who inhabited them. Or so had been true when they were still in Meereen. Had Daenerys lived to rule Westeros, Yara would have soon discovered that, whatever titles she’d been allowed, she’d have been no less subject to Daenerys’s wishes than anyone else in Westeros. 

But Yara didn’t know that. And since she’d already demonstrated that she’d inherited her full allotment of the Greyjoys’ blinkered, self-justifiying, and short-sighted reasoning, Tyrion anticipated that she would not be easily persuaded to abandon her aggrieved stance that Daenerys had been unjustly murdered, and that things in the Iron Islands would have been much better had the Dragon Queen lived. Tyrion craned his neck a bit to peer out into the bay. Yara’s single ship had been intercepted by Lord Jason Mallister’s longships out of Seagard, with an invitation to divert from the northerly course she’d set and to head to Casterly Rock instead. Tyrion could see that the Mallister ships were bobbing at anchor further out in the bay.

Tyrion turned away from the window and walked to the near end of the head table, at which generations of Lannisters had presided over feasts. 

Jaime had removed much of the family’s treasure when he abandoned Casterly Rock. Along with the Lannister gold, Jaime had made sure that the Lannister matriarch - Tywin’s sister, Genna - was safely away from Casterly Rock when the Unsullied attacked. A week after the Unsullied had departed, the recently widowed Genna Lannister returned, with her youngest (and last living) son, Red Walder Frey, and her brother Kevan’s sole surviving son, Martyn Lannister, in tow. Tyrion’s formidable aunt had quickly re-established order. Tyrion might now be the Lord of Casterly Rock, but his duties kept him in King’s Landing, leaving Genna to rule over the Rock. 

When he’d explained to his aunt why he’d come, and what he hoped to accomplish in his meeting with Yara Greyjoy, Genna had scoffed dismissively. “The Greyjoys are untrustworthy by nature, not to mention grasping and cowardly. Look at what Balon’s son did to the Starks, who by all accounts had treated him far better than some might have treated a traitor’s hostage. His sister made quite a name for herself over the years in the Westerlands, leading raids that stole not only livestock and goods but women too - or left them behind raped and bleeding. You’d think that a woman wouldn’t stoop to such treatment of her own kind, but Yara Greyjoy fancies herself a man. They’ve not troubled us since the Dragon’s Sack, although I did hear about some raids near Seagard a few months ago. I tell you, nephew, that the best thing for everyone would be to strike the Ironborn now and wipe them off the map. Tear down every building on those islands and salt the wells - make those blasted islands uninhabitable. They are only good for harboring seagulls and pirates. I heard that Euron Greyjoy cut down every standing tree - they’ll have to travel some distance, and steal from others, to rebuild their fleet. Why should we stand idly by and let them regain their strength? We know what they are and what they’ll continue to do if they’re left unchecked.” 

Unable to argue with his aunt’s sharp analysis, Tyrion was thankful that Genna had shown no interest in being present for his meeting with Yara. Tyrion poured himself a cup of wine and sat in the cavernous room to wait. It would have been courteous to go down to the pier to meet Yara, or to meet her at the steps at the entrance to Casterly Rock. But Tyrion sensed that Yara would not be won over with courtesies, and he did not want to give her the impression that this was a meeting of equals. Tyrion was the Hand of King Brandon Stark, and although this sovereign did not make a show of his power the way Daenerys Targaryen had, Tyrion needed to convey to Yara Greyjoy that she would very quickly encounter the consequences of defying her King. In fact, she already had, although she probably didn’t know it yet. Tyrion was reaching to refill his cup when Yara Greyjoy stalked into the room, scowling and itching for a fight.

The door closed quietly behind her, and Yara stopped, about a dozen paces from where Tyrion sat. “Lady Greyjoy,” Tyrion called over to her. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me here. It’s not often I’m able to get to Casterly Rock these days, given how much there is to do in King’s Landing, and I was pleased to have a reason to come here when the King asked me to speak with you.”

“The King,” Yara spat in disgust. “A crippled boy who’s never held a sword. What kind of a king sends a dwarf as his messenger?”

“A king whose abilities far exceed your limited imagination, I daresay,” Tyrion countered wryly. “Do you think it was by chance that Jason Mallister’s ships intercepted you, as you made your way to … Bear Island wasn’t it?”

Yara looked startled before covering her surprise with a sneering smile. “So you’ve planted a spy among my men, have you, Imp?”

“Not at all; there is no need. You did us the courtesy last year of making known your dislike of our king, and so he’s been keeping an eye on you. Many eyes, in fact.”

“Like I said, you’ve been spying on me!” Yara exclaimed.

“I believe the King has … watched you from time to time. But not in the way you think, Yara. Why don’t you sit down and have a drink while I explain things?” Tyrion picked up the flagon of wine to make the suggestion all the more clear.

Glaring at him suspiciously (the Greyjoys really had no subtlety at all), Yara strode over to the table and took a seat. Tyrion poured her a cup of wine and pushed it across the table. Yara held the cup in her hand but did not drink. “You were saying?” she asked in a flat voice.

Tyrion drank from his cup before replying, “You look at Brandon Stark and you see a crippled young man who has never gone to war, never held a sword, cannot ride a horse. What you don’t see is what you need to understand: Brandon Stark is the most powerful person alive in Westeros today, and not because he is King. In fact he might well be the most powerful person alive in Westeros at any point in our lifetime. And before you ask, that includes Daenerys Targaryen.”

Yara scoffed and drank deeply from her cup, but said nothing. 

Tyrion watched her and smiled, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. “What do your people know about greenseeing?”

Yara’s eyes narrowed, “What?”

“Brandon Stark is a greenseer. When he first explained his powers and how he’d come into them I confess I didn’t know what he was talking about. It’s not the kind of thing you hear about much here in the South, but the North keeps to the old gods, and the old ways, and some few among them have the ability to see into the past - greensight, it’s called. I do not have a good understanding of exactly how it works. Someone with greensight can see into the far past as well as the recent past, and in Brandon Stark’s case he can see into anyone’s past, anywhere. Things that happened thousands of years ago. Things that happened yesterday.

“If he chooses to he can listen to a conversation you had an hour ago. And he’s not just limited to things that have already happened - he can also embody animals and birds and so observe other people who are hundreds of miles away from King’s Landing. That power is not greensight, it’s -- “

“He’s a skinchanger?” Yara breathed.

Tyrion nodded, “Skinchangers are also not unheard of in the North. And the King’s powers in both regards are exceptionally strong. Jason Mallister knew where you were going, and which route you were taking, because the King told him - well, not in person. He sent a raven.”

Yara again drank deeply from her cup before asking, “Is the King listening now?”

Tyrion shook his head, “I very much doubt it. The King usually spends his time on … well to be honest I’m often not quite sure what he’s doing. But he hasn’t spent much time observing you - just enough to know that you have raided some villages and are trying to rebuild your fleet.”

“We need ships,” Yara replied simply.

“You may no longer obtain what you need by stealing, kidnapping, and murder,” Tyrion answered firmly. “The King’s instructions to you when you left King’s Landing last year after his coronation were unambiguous. You are free to restore the Iron Islands by any means except through theft or violence. You have not adhered to those orders.”

“We need wood, we need food, and other supplies,” Yara retorted indignantly.

“I imagine you do. How do other people who need things go about obtaining them, without resorting to violence?”

“We pay the iron price, that is our way. We are not _sheep_!” Yara asserted.

“You will be nothing if you don’t find another way to prosper,” Tyrion replied grimly. “It is not just the King who wishes this, the lords of the Westerlands, of Oldtown, and the Reach will not stand by and allow you to rebuild a pirate fleet. Right now you have a total of five galleys and six longships, along with a handful of fishing vessels. Nearly all of the fighting men of the Iron Isles were killed when Daenerys burned Euron’s fleet, so you can barely man the few ships you have. 

Yara scowled. “Many suffered great losses. We are rebuilding. It is slow, yes, but we will prevail. And then we will avenge our murdered queen.”

“From whom will you seek this vengeance?” Tyrion asked, eyebrows raised. “From Jon Snow? He is far away in the North, where he is widely regarded as a hero. You cannot touch him. And by rights the Iron Throne should have been his, since he’s the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen. Rather than acknowledge her nephew’s superior claim, Daenerys Targaryen threatened his life and the lives of his Stark kin unless he swore to keep silent and allow her to take the throne. She destroyed an entire city of innocent people, who were no threat at all to her, as a show of force to remind Jon and everyone yet alive what she was capable of. Jon Snow was right to kill her - she’d killed thousands and would have killed thousands more if he hadn’t stopped her.”

“And why should she have yielded her claim to his?” Yara demanded hotly. “She had dragons. She had armies. And she had been fighting for her claim for years. He falsely swore to serve her and then turned traitor and killed her.”

“No one believed in her more fervently than I once did,” Tyrion responded quietly. “I stood by her for more than two years, and did all I could to assist her. I wanted her to win. I wanted her on the Iron Throne. And when I finally could no longer deny that she was unfit to wield the power that she held, let alone the power that she sought, I begged Jon Snow to kill her, to do what I had not had the courage or will to do myself.”

Yara sprang to her feet, her face darkening with anger. “You wanted her dead?’

Tyrion sighed wearily, “I did. And I do not regret that. My regrets are that it took me far too long to see her for what she was.”

“She was fighting for a throne that was hers by right!’ Yara spat out her retort.

“But it turns out it was not hers by right. Which you know. Please, Yara, sit down. I’ve invited you here to talk about the future. But first we must speak honestly about the past. Both of us loved Daenerys Targaryen. Each of us came to her because we sought to triumph over members of our own families who wished us dead. My sister and your uncle would have happily killed us, and so we each sought to ally ourselves with the Mother of Dragons.

“She was glorious, was she not? Her shining hair, her beautiful face. Not much of a sense of humor, regrettably, but she commanded armies, and three enormous dragons, so perhaps there wasn’t much room for humor. I was enchanted the moment I met her, even while there was still a very good chance she’d have me executed for my family’s crimes against hers. And when she decided to be merciful, she won my heart completely. Was it similar for you?”

Yara was still glaring at him, but her face softened a bit as she thought back to her fateful meeting in Meereen. She nodded in agreement.

“And we all believed that her cause was noble. Her purpose was not just to win back what was rightfully hers but to make things better for everyone. Everyone except those who resisted her. They of course would die.”

“In that she was no different than anyone waging war,” Yara replied hotly. 

“No, she was not. And that was the problem: she’d claimed she would be different. She swore she would break the wheel. But as the bodies piled up, one couldn’t help but wonder what wheel it was she sought to break, what changes she intended to make. She freed slaves in Essos. But slavery didn’t exist in Westeros, so that accomplishment wouldn’t win anyone over. And once she was here, she quickly started executing prisoners simply because they refused to kneel to her, which was actually worse than what people were accustomed to here in Westeros.”

“She saved Westeros from the ice demon’s dead army in the North, when no one else could have,” Yara insisted.

“On that point you are sadly misinformed. I was there, and as I’m sure you must have heard it was Arya Stark who killed the Night King. Daenerys’s dragons and her armies were of little use against the Night King - in fact, he was able to take one of her dragons and use it against her and the rest of the living.”

“Only because Jon Snow lured her to the North with false promises of loyalty!”

Tyrion corrected Yara again, with growing impatience. “On the contrary, it was I who lured Jon Snow to come south, by implying that Daenerys was interested in an alliance. I did not tell him that she expected him to kneel. She kept him captive on Dragonstone for the better part of two months, and only allowed him to go to defend his home from the Army of the Dead because she’d decided to go herself. It _is_ true that Jon Snow sought her help once he was on Dragonstone. We all believed that she and her dragons were the only sure way the Night King could be defeated. But in that we all were wrong: the dragons were useless against the Night King. He was immune to their fire. 

“Daenerys emerged from that battle having lost more than half her army, one of her dragons gravely wounded, and her confidence badly shaken. She eventually told me that she’d come very close to being killed herself - the Dead had overwhelmed her dragon and had encircled her and Ser Jorah. He fought them off bravely, but their numbers were too many, and he was mortally wounded. Daenerys had picked up a sword to defend herself - which she did not know how to wield effectively - and expected to be cut down in the next instant. But then the Dead suddenly crumpled all around her. She knew it was not because of anything she’d done - her dragon had fled the field to escape the teeming hordes of dead that leapt upon it when it touched ground. The Battle of Winterfell was the first time, in fact the only time, that Daenerys Targaryen encountered a foe who was indifferent to her dragons’ firepower, whose power and will were much stronger than her own. She left the battlefield grieving and terrified. She shut herself in her room for two days, while the Starks tended to the living and prepared to burn the dead - newly killed loved ones, like your brother, and long-dead corpses alike.

“Daenerys Targaryen, along with everyone else who survived the Battle of Winterfell, have Brandon and Arya Stark to thank: he knew the Night King would come for him, and he positioned himself to be a tempting target, one the Night King thought he could take with ease. Your brother stood with Bran until the last moment, giving his life to protect Bran, and providing a distraction to the Night King that allowed Arya Stark to slip into the godswood undetected. Theon Greyjoy played a bigger role in the defense of Winterfell than Daenerys Targaryen did. Or Jon Snow, for that matter. They might as well have stayed put on Dragonstone.”

Tyrion sighed deeply before looking up from his wine cup to look sympathetically at Yara. “You are seeking vengeance for a deeply flawed woman whom you did not know well at all, and who barely remembered that you existed once you’d left Dragonstone.” 

“That’s a lie!” Yara spluttered. “She sent Theon to rescue me from Euron’s ship!”

“Did Theon tell you that?” Tyrion’s brow furrowed, the look of pity in his eyes deepening.

“Aye, he did. And why would he lie?” Yara spat back indignantly.

Tyrion shook his head and looked down again at his cup. “I could not say. But what I can tell you is that after you and Ellaria Sand were captured by Euron and taken to King’s Landing, Daenerys never mentioned you again in my hearing. And to the best of my knowledge Theon never spoke privately with Daenerys when he returned to Dragonstone, so I think there’s little chance that she mentioned you when not in my hearing. Not only did Daenerys not send Theon to your rescue, she didn’t even know what he was planning until after he’d left.” Tyrion’s gaze lifted to meet Yara’s again. “Jon Snow was the only one he’d consulted with before he set off.”

Yara sneered, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I was her ally. She attacked the Lannister army to avenge me and Ellaria, since she lacked the ships to go after Euron herself.”

Tyrion scoffed, “Is that what you think? Again, my lady, I regret to inform you that your name never passed her lips. And she attacked the Lannister army in a fit of rage, because she hated to be bested by anyone. Do you imagine that she thought to free you by attacking Jaime’s army? If you were her concern, why didn't she attack Euron’s fleet with her dragon? She didn’t need ships to do that.”

Yara’s frown deepened. “If she’d burned Euron’s fleet, I’d have died as well.”

Tyrion smiled mirthlessly at Yara, “Do you really think that would have given her pause, if she’d decided to turn her rage onto Euron at that moment? Daenerys didn’t even try to save the life of Missandei of Naath, once she’d fallen into my sister’s hands. I was sent to treat with Cersei, but Daenerys admitted that it was just for show. I had no instructions to make any concessions that might have spared Missandei’s life. Daenerys’s terms were ‘surrender or die‘. Cersei was stalling for time, if we’d offered to retreat in exchange for her hostage, she might have agreed. But no offer was made. Missandei of Naath died needlessly that day, and Daenerys bore some responsibility for that.”

“You’re making excuses for your bitch of a sister,” Yara seethed.

“If that’s what you think you’ve missed my point entirely, so let me be blunt: if Missandei of Naath didn’t merit any effort or concession from Daenerys, why on earth do you imagine that you did? I’m telling you plainly that you didn’t matter to Daenerys at all. Very few people did, and Missandei was one of them. But not even she was worth a pause in Daenerys’s pursuit of the Iron Throne.”

Tyrion continued, “It’s my belief that by that point Daenerys was paranoid and starting to unravel - I don’t think she’d recovered from the terrifyingly real possibility of defeat by the Night King. She’d gone north believing herself to be invincible - which was foolish, given that she’d already lost a dragon to the Night King. But Daenerys’s belief in herself, that she was the long-prophesied savior that Westeros was waiting for, led her to tremendous losses. And then we were surprised by Euron’s attack and the loss of another dragon, which badly rattled her. She’d never experienced such vulnerability, not since her dragons had grown. And, of course, she was worried about Jon Snow, her nephew and the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. She'd gone north believing she was on a path to glory and righteous triumph. She returned weakened and not nearly so confident as she'd once been. She wanted to seize King’s Landing and the Iron Throne as quickly as possible to forestall further losses. Cersei’s insolence and defiance infuriated her. 

“There was no one she’d loved more than Missandei of Naath. But Missandei’s life was outweighed by Daenerys’s anger and fear and blind ambition. We watched in horror as Cersei’s man lopped off the poor girl’s head. Daenerys retreated to Dragonstone and shut herself in her room to grieve a loss that she’d done nothing to prevent. Missandei mattered to her, but not as much as the Iron Throne did. You did not matter to her except as a means to an end, so if you think that you merited a second thought from Daenerys after you got yourself captured by Euron, you’re even more foolish than I’d supposed. The moment your ships were taken you ceased to be of interest to her.“

Yara looked down at the table with unseeing eyes, her mouth in a tight, angry line. Tyrion reached across to refill her cup, and wisely said no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And my apologies for the long gap in getting this chapter written and posted. Life got very busy, and my momentum faltered. There will be a few more before this story wraps up. Thank you for your patience!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon speak in the godswood

Sansa smiled in delight as she watched Wylf, who oversaw Winterfell’s stables, gently lower another lemon tree from the cart that had ferried the Prince of Dorne’s gift up from White Harbor. Several stablehands carried the trees from the front courtyard to where the new glasshouse was being built. 

The cart’s driver approached her respectfully and bowed as he handed her a handsomely tooled leather scroll case. “Ship’s captain said this came from Dorne with the trees, Your Grace.”

“Thank you,” Sansa replied with a smile as she took the case from the carter’s hand. She glanced over her shoulder at Cayle Lash, the captain of the Winterfell guards, who nodded his head and gave a small bow - the cart’s contents, including the scroll case, had already been inspected by Lash’s men by the time she’d arrived in the courtyard. 

The ragtag crew of poorly trained guards that Arya had disparaged when she’d returned to Winterfell had been transformed into a disciplined, smart company of well-trained men overseen by Lash, who’d joined Sansa’s entourage on the homeward journey from King’s Landing. Lash was a seasoned soldier whose family had northern roots, although he’d grown up in the Vale. His skill with sword and bow, his cool head, and his scrupulous attention to detail had led to a promotion to sargeant of the garrison at the Bloody Gate at a young age. Lord Yohn Royce had noted Lash’s honest character and common sense, and had recommended to him to Sansa. Lash had settled in quickly, and was now betrothed to a young woman from a nearby farm.

Sansa strolled towards the godswood, pleased with the day’s work. She’d conferred again with Maester Taras, and the two of them had worked out a plan for how to manage and settle the men of the Night’s Watch who would leave the Wall onto farms and in towns throughout the North. The maester was sending a raven to Castle Black to brief the Lord Commander. 

And that was just before noontide. Lord Wyman Manderly had painstakingly made his way up the stairs to her office, just as the maester was taking his leave, seeking a private audience. Declining to take the seat she’d offered, the proud old man had made a humble apology for his ill-considered words the previous evening. _“Your Grace, I had not intended to suggest that you could not assess the matter for yourself and arrive at a wise decision - nothing of the sort! I hope you know that I have every faith in your abilities. It was merely that I, well ... I had observed how things are between you and your cousin ...” Sansa’s cheeks had flushed and she cast her eyes down in embarrassment, to Lord Manderly’s consternation. He hastened to reassure her, “No, no Your Grace, nothing to be ashamed of. No, not at all. Your cousin is a noble, heroic young man. Very brave. Admittedly with a very unusual history, but he’s of the North and the North embraces him. And you are ... well there are already songs that celebrate your beauty, and your goodness. The love of the people is with you. And if you should choose to wed your father’s sister’s son, and bring him back home for good, well that would be a very fine thing indeed! If you make him your husband, I have little doubt but that he’ll heed your wisdom, for if not for you he’d still be making his home in a snowbank beyond the Wall! Leonora made me see how poorly I’d chosen my words last night, Your Grace, and I hope you can forgive me.”_

__

__

_Sansa’s smile had been genuine as she accepted the old man’s apology. When she invited him to break bread with her he did sit down, and then the two of them discussed the nuts and bolts of what would be needed to get the ice-selling project underway. “I leave the extracting of the ice to Maester Taras and the builders of the Night’s Watch,” Lord Manderly declared. “I know nothing of that. But it occurs to me that if the buyers in the Summer Isles and other markets know that there will be ice coming, and if there’s a steady supply of it in regular shipments, we may find that there are even more buyers than there are right now for the sea ice the Ibbenese sell. Not only will our ice be of superior quality, if we can produce and transport it regularly, folks can plan for its use and will buy more of it. Ice could become a regular commodity, rather than just a rare treat. I’d never heard of the smallfolk using ice from the Wall to line their larder cellars - imagine if wealthy men in Pentos could do the same! I’d warrant they’d pay for it if they could get it. If we handle it well this could be tremendously profitable.”_

Once she’d reached the weirwood tree in the center of the tranquil godswood, Sansa seated herself on one of the tree’s exposed roots, and slid the rolled letter from its handsome case. Since returning from King’s Landing, she’d maintained a friendly correspondence with Prince Manfrey Martell, Oberyn and Doran’s younger cousin and now the ruler of Dorne. They’d met in King’s Landing, after the Dragon’s Sack, when Manfrey had been summoned to participate in the great council that had resulted in the North’s independence and Bran being named King of the Six Kingdoms. Although Dorne had been an ally of long-standing to House Targaryen, and indeed the newly named Dornish prince had declared his support for Daenerys Targaryen over Cersei Lanniester, Manfrey Martell did not appear to hold a grudge against Jon or the Starks. He’d assented to Tyrion’s proposal to make Bran the new king, and he’d stayed silent on the issue of what to do with Jon. 

A widower with two young daughters, Arianne and Elia, Manfrey had explained to Sansa, over dinner in her camp outside King’s Landing, that he had served his cousin Doran for many years as Sunspear’s castellan. Ellaria Sand had murdered Doran and his bodyguard at the Water Gardens, along with his heir, Trystane, but she didn’t appear to have given Manfrey much thought at all in the ensuing months as she plotted to topple Cersei Lannister. Ellaria’s coup was borne of anger and impatience with Doran’s slow-turning plans; she didn’t have a long-term plan for Dorne’s rule. Manfrey had nevertheless sent his wife and children to safety at his family’s manor near Lemonwood, away from any likely fighting. His precaution had tragically proven fatal to his wife, who’d been killed when she was thrown from her horse just a few miles before they’d reached Lemonwood. The newly widowed Manfrey had left his daughters in the care of an aunt while he kept a wary eye on Ellaria Sand. Doran’s alliance with the Lannisters had been deeply unpopular in Dorne, but many shared Manfrey’s skepticism about Ellaria’s alliance with Daenerys Targaryen. Unlike her father and brother, this Targaryen had really been a dragon - and Dorne had not forgotten the great losses it suffered when the Targaryen kings of old had set out to conquer it. Ellaria was bent on vengeance against the Lannisters at any cost, which Manfrey had deemed extremely unwise. He was neither surprised nor saddened by the news that Ellaria and the Sand Snakes had met violent ends. Acknowledged by the septons in Sunspear and in Plankytown as the head of House Martell, and accepted by the lords of Dorne as their new Prince, Manfrey had seen no need to rush into the war brewing in King’s Landing. He’d instead adopted a time-honored Dornish strategy, one long favored by Doran (perhaps, Manfrey admitted, too long): wait and see. And in less than a year his patience was rewarded without shedding another drop of Dornish blood: Cersei Lannister was dead. Daenerys Targaryen was dead. Manfrey was relatively indifferent about who was crowned in King’s Landing, so long as they left Dorne alone.

Although Manfrey was more than a decade older than Sansa, when they met they were in similar positions of unexpected leadership, and Sansa was grateful to have a confidant who understood the challenges of restoring order, choosing advisers, and identifying the most urgent among many priorities. And although they were situated at opposite ends of Westeros, the North and Dorne had much in common: distinct cultures and histories that set them apart from other regions, vast stretches of sparsely populated land that was inhospitable to cultivation, and fierce independent streaks. Sansa had secured independence for the North by boldly declaring it before all on that momentous day in King’s Landing. Manfrey hadn’t had an enormous standing army at his back, nor any tie at all to the new king - let alone that of a beloved sister - so he had not done the same for Dorne. But Sansa sensed that it was only a matter of time before he would.

With the page spread across her lap, Sansa eagerly read Manfrey’s letter in the dappled light of the mid-afternoon sun. She smiled at his description of an idyllic afternoon he’d spent with his girls in the Watergardens. She was so absorbed in reading that she did not notice Jon’s approach until he was nearly upon her. She looked up, her smile widening as she met his eyes. 

“Am I interrupting?” Jon asked.

“No, not at all. I was just reading a letter from Manfrey Martell,” Sansa replied. At Jon’s querying look she explained, “He’s now the Prince of Dorne. He was present at the great council in King’s Landing last year. You would have seen him but I don’t believe you and he ever spoke.”

Jon searched his memory of that day, which was admittedly fragmented. He’d taken no note of any of the figures seated under the canopy besides his Stark cousins. He frowned and shook his head as he sat stood beside Sansa. “I can’t recall.”

“I suppose that’s not surprising; you had a lot on your mind that day,” Sansa replied smoothly as she rolled up the letter to return it to its case. “He’s a good man who came suddenly into his role when his cousin, Doran Martell, was murdered two years ago. He and I have exchanged a few letters this last year. I appreciate his advice and support - we’ve both found ourselves thrust into leading our people.” Her lips curved in a small, wistful smile, “His letters have made me feel a little less lonely this past year.”

Jon’s face softened as he watched Sansa’s head bent over the letter case. He shifted a bit and crouched so that his face was level with hers. “I’m sorry to have left you here to manage everything by yourself.”

Sansa dropped the leather cylinder in her lap as she raised her gaze to meet Jon’s. “I missed you, so very much. It’s been a constant ache. I’ve tried to push you out of my thoughts. Most days I’m so busy that it’s not too hard. But at night, or in quiet moments ...”

“I can’t count the number of restless nights I’ve had filled with thoughts of you,” Jon interjected, reaching out a hand to cup the side of Sansa’s face. “I’ve already told you about the dreams. Once when I’d fallen asleep ... with Daenerys, as we sailed for Winterfell, I said your name aloud. When I woke, she asked me who “Sansa” was. I told her that you were my sister, and the Lady of Winterfell. That was the only time we’d discussed you before she met you, but I think it was enough to alert her to how important you were to me.”

Sansa’s eyes had shifted away from his at the mention of Daenerys, and then her lips curled in a smile that verged on a sneer as she gave him a sidelong glance. “The _only_ time you’d discussed me with her? You mean you didn’t tell her that I, like the North, was very beautiful?”

Jon smiled uneasily, uncertain where the conversation was headed, “Nay I said no such thing. I ... to speak of your beauty might have betrayed how I really felt about you.”

Sansa nodded, her gaze fixed on a distant spot somewhere behind Jon. She set the letter scroll on the ground and then rose slowly to her feet. Jon also stood, watching her face intently though it betrayed not even a hint of what she was thinking. The awkward silence that had descended worried him, but he dared not risk saying the wrong thing. 

After what felt like an hour but was really just the space of a few breaths, Sansa’s gaze shifted again, to meet his, and she shook her head with a small, rueful laugh. “You did a very good job of hiding your feelings for me when the Dragon Queen was here. In fact you did such a good job that Arya, of all people, wasn’t entirely sure that your loyalties were still with the North and your family. I never thought I’d see the day that _Arya_ was indignant on my behalf about something _you_ had said!”

Jon frowned as he tried to remember what he might have said about Sansa that would have bothered Arya. And suddenly the conversation he’d had with her in this very spot came flooding back to him, and his face grew red.

“Sansa thinks she’s smarter than everyone,” they inadvertently chorused - Jon embarrassed, Sansa wryly amused.

“She told you about that?” Jon asked shamefacedly. 

“Of course she did. She’d been observing you as you rode into Winterfell with the Dragon Queen. She wasn’t sure whose side you were on at first. She said you thought she was the same little girl she’d been when you left for the Wall. She didn’t like the way the Dragon Queen used her dragons to intimidate the smallfolk of Winterfell. Or her imperiousness. You must know that Arya has never liked people who relied on their station to impress or impose on others. She told me we’d have our work cut out for us making sure that Daenerys Targaryen didn’t hurt anyone while she was at Winterfell. Fortunately dealing with Littlefinger had taught us how to work together. Arya avoided interacting with your aunt as much as she could, but she was often much closer to the Dragon Queen than anyone ever realized, watching from the shadows while I did the pretty with our honored guest.”

“I didn’t deserve either of you,” Jon sighed. “Sansa, can you ever forgive me? Forgive me for underestimating your wisdom when you advised me against going south? Forgive me for yielding to a woman whose wickedness I’d grossly underestimated and for bringing her here, to our home?”

“I can forgive you and I do,” Sansa said in a quiet voice, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Jon reached out to gently stroke her cheek, closing the distance between them as his other arm wrapped around the small of her back. As their lips met in a gentle kiss, his hand softly caressed her temple. Sansa responded by twining her arms around his neck and pressing against the length of his body. Jon instinctively tightened his grip, both arms wrapped around her as he deepened the kiss. Sansa opened her mouth to his without hesitation, and tentatively matched his exploring tongue with her own. Her taste, her smell, and the sensation of her body pressed tightly against his own had Jon’s heart pounding in his ears. After a few more minutes of indulgence, Jon took half a step back and lifted his head. He watched Sansa’s face as her eyes slowly opened, a look of wonder on her face, which then melted into a smile that seared his heart.

“I’ve never been kissed like _that_!” she declared.

“That’s the only way a woman like you should ever be kissed,” he returned playfully.

Sansa’s smile grew arch, “A woman like me? What am I to you?”

Jon’s playfulness evaporated, “You are the woman I love, above any other. Although I didn’t take the Night’s Watch vow when I returned to the Wall last year, when I set out for Winterfell a few days ago it was with a firm belief that I would never touch a woman again. I knew that I loved you, and I never dared imagine that you might return my feelings. And I’ll never want another.”

Jon stepped back from her encircling arms. He took her hands in his and kissed each of them before sinking to his knees before her. In response to Sansa’s quizzical smile he spoke in a voice gruff with emotion, “Sansa Stark, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Will you allow me to love you and protect you?”

Sansa’s eyes were streaming as she nodded and cried, “Yes, oh yes!” Jon broke into a wide grin, but he resisted the tug of her hands urging him to stand.

“Wait, I’ve more to say,” he warned. Sansa looked at him expectantly. “I would be your husband but I will not be called king,” he said solemnly. “I yielded that title, and will not take it back by marrying you. But — ” he hastened to add as Sansa opened her mouth to object. “I will take the Stark name. I will do nothing that could cause anyone to question who rules the North. You are the Queen. It is thanks to you that Winterfell was saved from the Boltons. You held the North together when, for all intents and purposes, I’d abandoned it - ” he continued over her renewed protests, “- even if that’s not what I’d intended to do. You have done more to rebuild it than I’d have done if I’d kept my title.”

He continued, “I love you and I want to be by your side. I want to help you. And ... I want desperately to be in your bed. I want to have children with you.” Sansa’s tears were flowing freely down her face, as she clenched his hands. “But I will not accept a crown, Sansa. I will not threaten yours. The only way I can do this is if you agree that I will not be named King.”

Jon rose to his feet, still clasping Sansa’s hands. He kissed her forehead, and pulled a hand free. He gently wiped the tears from her face with his shirtsleeve. “Would you still have me as a husband if I am not a king?”

Sansa sniffed, and took a deep breath. “Is this truly what you want? Or is it what you think I want?”

Jon smiled sadly as he leaned in to kiss her lightly. “I was never comfortable being king. And after all that has happened, I could never accept that title again, not under any circumstances. I don’t trust my judgement - except where you are concerned. I have complete faith in you, and I would do anything I could to support you. I’ve failed in the past - more than once - to heed your advice. I would never make that mistake again.”

Sansa looked down as she considered what he’d said. “Very well,” she said quietly. She raised her eyes to meet his squarely, and said firmly, “I want you for my husband. I want you by my side. I want you to be the father of my children, and to take the Stark name. You shall be the Lord of Winterfell, consort to the Queen in the North.”

Jon was taken aback, “Lord of Winterfell?” he repeated doubtfully. “That’s unnecessary. I seek no title for myself.”

Sansa raised her chin with a challenging gleam in her eye. “On the contrary, my lord. I might not need a king to rule at my side, but I cannot marry a common soldier. What would people say?”

Jon laughed as he shook his head, “You’d marry the man you grew up knowing as your bastard half-brother, who turns out to really be your Targaryen cousin - the last living member of the most accursed family in Westeros, a man who was killed by his own men and brought back by a red witch, a man who stood by while his aunt burned an entire city of innocent people and then killed her - you’d marry _that_ man, but you’re worried about what people would think if you married someone who didn’t have a title?

Sansa gave him her haughtiest look, chin up and eyebrows raised, as she retorted, “That’s right. I will not have people say that I am ungenerous to my husband.”

Jon’s smile widened, “So you’re saying I’d need to accept the title to make you look good?”

Sansa gave him a knowing look, “Did you not just promise to do anything that you could to assist me in my rule?”

Jon bowed his head, acknowledging defeat, “Aye, that I did, Your Grace.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran shares some happy news with Podrick

Ser Podrick jumped when the King addressed him - although he typically spent at least a few hours in the King’s company most days, they did not converse much, especially when Bran was greenseeing - as he’d been just a few minutes earlier when Podrick had last checked.

Pod stammered, “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I didn’t catch what you just said.”

Bran repeated himself, “I was wondering how well you knew my sister, Sansa.”

Podrick’s eyes narrowed a bit and he frowned as he considered the question. “Well, Your Grace, I first met Lady Sansa in King’s Landing, when she was betrothed and then married to Lord Tyrion. I was his squire in those days. I really didn’t speak with her at all at that time, so I wouldn’t say that I _knew_ her. Then later, Brienne and I encountered her at an inn on the King’s Road, when she was traveling north with Littlefinger. She ... well, she didn’t know who Brienne was and of course Littlefinger wanted nothing to do with us, so I didn’t speak with her at that time either. Then ... the next time I saw her was when Brienne and I rode to rescue her and Theon Greyjoy from Ramsay Bolton’s hounds and men in the woods north of Winterfell.

“It was then that I got to know your sister better. We spent some weeks at Castle Black with Jon Snow. Then Lady Sansa sent us to Riverrun to seek help from Brynden Tully, so I was not present for the Battle of the Bastards - Brienne and I arrived in Winterfell nearly three weeks after they’d retaken the castle. And then we were there for some months, and by the time Lady Sansa sent us off again, this time to King’s Landing, you were in Winterfell. And so that is how well I know your sister, Your Grace.”

Bran smiled kindly, “I might call that a description of how _long_ you’ve known Sansa, not how _well_ you know her. But perhaps my question was not as straightforward as I’d intended. Brienne and Sansa grew close in their time together, and they maintain an active correspondence now. I know that Brienne will wish to attend Sansa’s wedding, and I wondered if you would like to go with her.”

“The Queen in the North is getting married?” Podrick asked, only faintly surprised. Sansa Stark was no doubt besieged by suitors, drawn by both her beauty and her crown. And with none of her kin close by, it was no surprise that she’d want to start a family of her own. Still Pod did marvel a bit that Sansa would willingly marry again, with two unwanted husbands behind her. 

_Shortly after their arrival at Castle Black, Sansa Stark had asked to see the resident maester. A replacement had not yet been sent after Maester Aemon’s death, so Sansa and Jon had gone through the old maester’s supply of salves, and Sansa had selected what she’d needed. She had not allowed her half-brother to assist her in applying them, turning instead to Brienne._

_Brienne’s face had been grim and ashen when she’d later joined Pod in Castle Black’s great hall, sitting across from him at an otherwise empty table. She’d reached across the table and had, uncharacteristically, taken Pod’s tankard of ale without asking or even acknowledging him. She drank deeply, apparently indifferent to the unpleasant, musty bitterness of Castle Black’s home brew. When she lowered the tankard, Pod had quietly asked if Lady Sansa was all right. At first Brienne gave no sign that she’d heard him as she stared stonily at the tabletop. But after a few moments she’d replied._

_“All right? I don’t know that anyone who’s been through what she’s suffered will ever really be all right. I’ve come very close to —” Brienne’s jaw clenched and she shook her head— “being raped. It is terrifying and humiliating and disgusting. And I feel quite certain that it is very painful.” She’d then lifted the tankard again and drank the rest of its contents. Pod had sat mutely, listening to the anger and anguish in Brienne’s voice. He had no words of comfort to offer._

_He’d been startled when Brienne slammed the empty cup down on the table. Her jaw was clenched again and when their eyes met Pod had seen the same rage on her face that she’d shown when she’d looked down at a gravely wounded Stannis Baratheon. “But Ramsay Bolton didn’t just rape Sansa every night for three months. He whipped her repeatedly - a helpless young woman who’d done nothing but make the mistake of agreeing to marry him. I think he also used a knife on her too. She has welts and wounds all over her back. I understand now why she was willing to risk death jumping from Winterfell’s wall and running headlong into the forest. That man is a brutal monster. He deserves a slow, painful death, and I hope I’ll be the one to deliver it to him.”_

_They had not noticed Jon Snow approaching their table, and so were both surprised when he interjected in a low, tight voice, “You won’t be, not if I get to him first.”_

Podrick had pitied Sansa Stark when he’d first met her: a frightened and miserable child bride. Later, she’d been panicked and terrified when he and Brienne had found her with Theon in the forest. And after learning how horribly she’d suffered as the unwilling wife of Ramsay Bolton, Podrick’s sympathy for Sansa Stark had deepened. But pity was very quickly joined by admiration for the courage and steely resolve the young Stark heiress had displayed as she and Jon made their plans at Castle Black. Podrick also noted Sansa’s very evident concern for the well-being of others beside herself: she hadn’t simply sought vengeance against the Boltons but to save her fellow Northerners from tyranny and terror. 

In the end it had been Lady Sansa herself who’d decided on Ramsay Bolton’s slow and painful death. And when Podrick heard how she’d summoned Littlefinger and the Knights of the Vale to their aid, he recognized that, although she could not fight with a sword like Brienne of Tarth, Sansa Stark herself was formidably intelligent and capable. 

“May I ask, Your Grace, whom your sister will marry?” Podrick didn’t need to ask how Bran had come to know about Sansa’s impending wedding; there hadn’t been a letter from Winterfell for nearly a month.

Bran looked up at him with a faint smile, “she’s marrying our cousin, Jon Snow. He will take the Stark name. It neatly resolves the question of continuing the Stark line.”

“That it does, Your Grace” Podrick acknowledged slowly, with a thoughtful expression on his face. Pod thought back to moments he’d observed Jon Snow and Sansa Stark together - in serious discussion, or laughing, or arguing, or riding side by side in companionable silence. It only struck him now that in all of those moments - even moments of discord - they were indisputably together. There was an ease between Sansa and the man who turned out to be her cousin, an ease that Pod had not observed between the Lady of Winterfell and either of her true-born siblings. 

Pod recalled the feast in Winterfell’s great hall, after their victory over the Night King. Sansa and Jon had been seated, side by side as usual, at the high table, with the Dragon Queen. Podrick had an appreciative eye for feminine beauty, but was usually far too modest and unassuming to openly stare at a comely woman, let alone a high-born beauty like Sansa Stark. Nevertheless he’d indulged in several lingering glances at her that evening - she’d glowed with a radiant beauty that owed nothing to fussy braids and curls like those that the Dragon Queen habitually sported. The Lady of Winterfell did not seek to draw attention to herself as the Dragon Queen had, content to listen to the boasts and jests of the men who’d gathered around Jon Snow. Pod clearly recalled a glimpse he’d caught of Sansa Stark smiling up at Jon Snow as he laughed with his men. And now that memory seemed much more significant than a pleasant view of a beautiful woman. _She loved him then_ , Pod realized. _And she probably still does._

He found himself blurting out to the King, “I hope that he is worthy of her.”

Bran looked at Pod searchingly, “I had not realized that you were among those who blame Jon Snow for what Daenerys Targaryen did.”

Pod shook his head, “No, Your Grace, no I’m not. Please forgive me for speaking out of turn.”

There was no hint of irritation in Bran’s reply, only curiosity. “What is it, then, that you doubt about Jon Snow’s worthiness to marry my sister?”

Podrick flushed with embarrassment, “It’s ... it’s not my place to say this, Your Grace. And I don’t even know that I’m right ...”

“Please speak freely, Pod. I would like to know what you think.”

“Well, as I thought back on the times that I saw them together - your sister and your cousin, that is - it ... well, it seems to me now that perhaps she loved him. I mean perhaps she was in love with him. And ... well, if that’s true, I just hope that he deserves it. Deserves her love.”

Bran’s quizzical smile broadened into a grin, “I can assure you that he not only deserves it, he returns it.”

Podrick’s face showed his surprised relief, “Is that so, Your Grace? I do not doubt it if you say so. And ... now that I think on it, I believe it must be true. I hadn’t seen it at the time because, well, I hadn’t been looking for it. We thought he was her half-brother, after all. But now it does make sense. 

“... Once, when we were at Winterfell, before Jon Snow went south to Dragonstone, Brienne and I rode out with Lady Sansa, Jon Snow, and Ser Davos to visit some nearby farmsteads. It was a rare sunny day, even though it was cold. She is lovely, your sister, and was especially so that day, so happy she was to be free. I’d stolen a few looks at her, though it was improper of me, and then I checked to see if anyone had observed me. Brienne was riding a bit ahead of the rest of us. Ser Davos was watching Jon Snow. And Jon Snow was watching Lady Sansa. I was relieved at not being caught, and at the time it didn’t surprise me that he should take pleasure in his sister’s happiness. It was Ser Davos that puzzled me a bit, why he was looking so hard at Jon Snow as he was. He finally noticed me looking at him and looked away. I remarked on it later to Brienne, and she’d said that Ser Davos was likely annoyed that Jon Snow had insisted on accompanying his sister on the outing, when there were so many pressing matters demanding his attention, and Sansa already had an armed escort. But now I wonder if Ser Davos saw something more in the way that Jon Snow looked at his sister.”

“We could ask him,” Bran replied evenly. “But for now, tell me: would you like to go with Brienne to attend Sansa’s wedding?”

“Why yes, Your Grace, yes I would,” Podrick replied. “It would be nice to see them both in happier times.”

“Indeed. I would go myself if the journey weren’t so long,” Bran replied 

Podrick’s smile was mischievous, “You’ll be there regardless, Your Grace.”

“I will,” Bran agreed. “Today I must send two ravens - one to Winterfell and one to Casterly Rock. Will you ask a page to summon Brienne, and Ser Davos? And I’ll want to speak with Sam, too.”

“At once, Your Grace,” Podrick replied, before turning to open the door.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yara Greyjoy dines with the Lannisters

Tyrion leaned back in his chair in the smaller hall that the Lannisters typically dined in when they weren’t hosting feasts at Casterly Rock. He was relieved, and more than a little surprised, that the evening was going so well. 

Since it was obvious that it would take some time to arrive at a resolution with Yara, he’d invited her (and her crew) to spend the night at Casterly Rock. Not only had that been the hospitable thing to do, it had also lessened the chance that the Ironborn would slip away under cover of darkness. 

He’d anticipated resistance from his aunt, but Genna Lannister had defied his expectations by suggesting that Yara join the family for dinner that evening. And when he’d introduced Yara to his aunt, Genna’s welcome had been cooly gracious, without the hostility and scorn for the Ironborn that she’d expressed earlier.

Unsurprisingly, Yara was not a good conversationalist, but that hardly mattered as Genna dominated the discussion. She adroitly avoided any mention of the Iron Islands’ predicament, or why Yara had been summoned to Casterly Rock. Instead she discussed her late husband’s family and the diminishment of the Freys after the loss of their lands and titles.

Walder Frey had had many sons and grandsons, but their numbers had been greatly reduced by the wars, some diseases, and a few instances of stupid misadventure. And then, of course, almost every remaining Frey male alive, including old Walder himself, had been gruesomely slaughtered nearly two years ago in The Twins’ great hall. Genna’s husband and their oldest living son, Lyonel, had both been killed by the poisoned wine that was served to the Frey assembly that night. Walder’s decapitated body had been dumped in a well; his head was never located. Strangely, no suspects were ever identified, even though news of the killings had spread like wildfire; it was universally understood that the murder of Walder Frey’s family was revenge, many said justice, for the infamous Red Wedding that Walder had orchestrated years earlier. 

Genna’s husband, Emmon Frey, had been Walder Frey’s second-oldest son. Genna had tolerated a marriage, arranged by her feckless father, to a man whose intelligence, will, energy, and courage were unquestionably inferior to her own. Fortunately for them both, Emmon had recognized that his wife was smarter and more determined than he was, and had tended to follow her lead. Although technically she became a Frey upon wedding Emmon, Genna continued to style herself “Lannister;” they’d spent most of their time at Casterly Rock. Neither her husband nor any of her sons had been present at the Red Wedding. Genna had been aghast when they learned what her in-laws had done, and she’d vowed that she’d never again set foot in The Twins as long as Walder Frey still lived. Nor had she; when Emmon finally undertook a delayed visit to his father and brothers, his wife and youngest son had stayed at Riverrun, which had been given to Emmon after the Lannister army ousted Brynden Tully. Red Walder was Genna’s favorite child, and although he’d been named for his grandfather, he was the least Frey-like of her four sons (and some questioned whether he was really a Frey at all, a rumor Genna always denied). Since he was unlikely to inherit anything from Walder, Genna saw no need for Red Walder to do the pretty to the old man. Genna’s distaste for her husband’s kin had spared her youngest son from the killing that night, but it was a fast-thinking squire, a Lannister cousin she’d taken under her wing, who’d managed to get back to Riverrun in time to allow them to flee to Casterly Rock ahead of the newly freed Edmure Tully’s forces. Not a Frey himself, and so not invited to join old Walder’s assembly of sons and grandsons and assorted other kin, Damon Lannister had been out in the stables when he heard the maidservants’ screams that rose from the great hall. Cautiously entering with his sword drawn, he’d seen dozens of men writhing in agony, clutching their throats, or already dead. He saw his lord, Emmon Frey, lifeless on the floor, and his son Lyonel twitching and gasping his last breaths. Assessing them to be beyond help, Damon had not lingered, instead saddling his horse and riding hard for Riverrun. Genna had wasted no time mourning for a husband she had not loved or a son that she had, astutely recognizing that in an instant the balance of power in the Riverlands had again dramatically shifted, this time not in her family’s favor. 

As she dined with her son, her nephews Tyrion and Martyn, and the nearly silent Yara Greyjoy, Genna had asserted that by rights Red Walder, now fifteen, should have inherited the Frey lands and lordship. But that night of slaughter had indeed signaled the end of Frey influence in the Riverlands. Walder’s son-in-law and erstwhile prisoner, Edmure Tully, had been quickly freed by his wife, the former Roslin Frey, and as Genna had foreseen, he immediately returned to Riverrun, with all of the lords of the Riverlands rallying to his side. She had never been particularly impressed by Edmure - his sister Catelyn had clearly been more intelligent and capable - but she’d had to admit that the lord of Riverrun had handled the aftermath of his treacherous father-in-law’s brutal demise very neatly, galling though it was.

Edmure had declared Walder and all of his sons and grandsons traitors, and had confiscated all Frey lands and titles, in perpetuity. Any Frey heirs still alive were explicitly disinherited. In times of peace this would have required the Crown’s approval, but Cersei had been preoccupied with other matters and was uninterested in what was taking place so far from King’s Landing. And soon after that the arrival of the Dragon Queen had rendered all other concerns moot.

After The Dragon’s Sack, Genna had been hopeful that the new King, Brandon Stark, would be interested in reconciling the various warring factions and might be willing to consider a petition to restore Red Walder as the rightful Frey heir. But six months ago Roslin Tully gave birth to a second son, Robb, and Edmure had bestowed The Twins upon the infant. Genna knew that ended whatever hope they’d had of gaining any Frey holdings for Red Walder. 

“What do you suggest for the boy, Nephew?” Genna asked him pointedly. Tyrion shot a sympathetic look at his discomfited young cousin - an intelligent young man whose looks favored his mother’s family, except for the rusty coloring that gave him his moniker. Genna pressed on, “I should think there might be a post in King’s Landing that would be suitable for him.”

“Indeed, Aunt? You’d send him to King’s Landing? Do you propose to go there yourself?” Tyrion asked in surprise. Genna had never cared for King’s Landing, and Tyrion doubted that its current, half-ruined state would make it more appealing to his aunt.

Genna shook her head, “No, I do not. I’ve never made any bones about the fact that Red Walder is my favorite son. And now he is my only son. I’ve done what I can to make sure his education has been adequate. His uncle Kevan had more to do with his upbringing than his father did - he and Martyn are like brothers. But he’s nearly a man now, and unlike Cersei I don’t propose to keep my son tied to my apron strings. Martyn is your heir now, and seems likely to inherit Casterly Rock, unless you surprise us all by taking a bride and producing sons of your own —” Genna paused for a brief moment before startling Tyrion by interrupting herself to ask, “Is there any chance that your marriage to Sansa Stark is still valid? Any possibility of renewing that connection?”

Tyrion made sure his face and tone were neutral as he answered, “None whatsoever, Aunt. If there were I’d be in Winterfell now, rather than serving as her brother’s Hand.” He looked up at her pointedly, “I’m sorry if that disappoints you.”

Genna disregarded the tension she’d created, “I’m not at all surprised but we must leave no stone unturned. We need to do what we can to shore up the losses we’ve suffered. We must look to our family’s future. My concern is to help my son and both of my nephews” - she returned Tyrion’s pointed look - “make the most of what’s left to us. I don’t know that we’ll ever regain the glory that the Lannisters saw when Tywin was alive but as long as I’m alive I’ll do whatever I can to advance our interests.”

“Well said, Aunt, very well said indeed,” Tyrion lifted his wine-cup in an impromptu salute. “To return to the question you’ve asked about a post in King’s Landing for Red Walder —” Tyrion turned to the boy with a glint of mischief in his eye. “By the way, now that you are the only living Walder Frey (let us hope!), have you considered changing your name? Perhaps we could just call you Walder? Or Red? Although, when you think about it, the worst part of your name might actually be ‘Frey.’ It’s not the most hated name in Westeros these days, but it’s not going to do you any favors.”

Red Walder looked startled, “Well, I’d never thought about it but I suppose I could just go by Walder now. ‘Red Walder’ is perhaps more of a child’s name ...?” He looked to see what his mother’s reaction was.

Genna had broken into a cat-like smile as she regarded Tyrion, before shifting her gaze to smile more kindly at her son, “If you’d like to go by just Walder now I don’t see why you shouldn’t. And if you wish to drop the Frey name I’ve no objection to that either. Why should I, when I refused to take it for myself?”

Tyrion heard Yara snickering softly beside him. He gave her a sidelong glance before remarking dryly, “If we’re being honest, the Lannister name doesn’t garner much goodwill outside of the Westerlands these days. And while you’ll not get far with “Frey” in the Riverlands - or in the North, I daresay - I’m not sure it would be such a hindrance in King’s Landing. Do you want to go to King’s Landing, Walder?”

The boy shared a look with his cousin, Martyn, as he said, “I need to train more, Cousin. I’d once hoped to squire for Cousin Jaime, and if I’d done that I’d have lived in King’s Landing.”

“Be glad you were too young to squire with Jaime,” Genna interjected. “You’d very likely have died when the Dragon Queen attacked our men who were returning from Highgarden. She burned hundreds of men alive. Jaime himself barely made it out.”

Martyn Lannister spoke up, “I heard he charged the Targaryen queen and her great dragon that day, by himself.”

“He did charge them. He was very brave, and very foolish,” Tyrion said. “I watched from a ridge in horror, for although the dragon had been wounded by a bolt in its shoulder, it was still very very dangerous. Fortunately Jaime was not entirely alone. Ser Bronn of the Blackwater was trailing him and then knocked him off his horse and into the river just as the dragon let loose a torrent of flame that incinerated the horses in an instant.”

“Madness,” Genna declared. “The only sensible thing to do if confronted by a dragon is to run away if you can, or to submit if there is no other choice. Only a fool would rush at it with nothing but a spear.”

“Right you are, Aunt,” Tyrion agreed. “Although his target had been the Dragon Queen herself, not her beast. He knew very well how dangerous the Targaryens were. He fought them because someone had to stop them. He saw what unfettered power could do, especially in the hands of unstable minds that enjoyed watching men burn. My greatest regret in life is that I did not heed him until it was too late.”

Genna nodded, “Jaime was Tywin’s favorite child, but he was the least like him. I think that was because he grew up in the shadow of a powerful, capable father, while Tywin himself was as ruthless as he was because our own father was weak-willed and overeager to please. The father makes the son but not always in his own image. Tywin had to fight to prove himself and restore our family’s strength and position. Jaime didn’t face that challenge, but I suspect that he saw the darker consequences of Tywin’s harshness. Jaime was far from perfect but he often had a very fine sense of honor and justice. It’s too bad that his greatest deed was held against him.”

Martyn raised his goblet, “To Jaime Lannister.”

“To Jaime,” echoed the rest. Yara surprised herself and Tyrion by raising her own goblet.

“Men can change,” she observed quietly. “A man who does great harm can also do much good if he learns from his mistakes.”

Tyrion nodded. “I can think of no better example of this than your brother, Theon.” He shot Genna a warning look but it wasn’t necessary; his aunt did not seem to wish to offend their guest. He still thought it better to steer the conversation into safer waters, and turned back to Walder.

“So if it’s training you seek, I think you might do well with Brienne of Tarth. She managed to make a pretty decent fighter out of my former squire, Ser Podrick Payne. He certainly didn’t get any fighting training during his time with me. I can ask if she’d be willing to take you on.”

Walder smiled in gratitude, “Thank you, Cousin.”

Tyrion turned to Martyn, “And you, Cousin. My heir! We shall have to find a good master-at-arms to get you into shape so that you can be a credit to the Lannister name. Someone must, after all, and I’m afraid I’m too steeped in scandal and bad deeds for it to ever be me.”

“What’s your weapon?” Yara asked Martyn.

“Longsword,” Martyn answered, a bit puzzled by what seemed like an obvious question. Sons of nobility, particularly those that aspired to knighthood, were always trained in the longsword, and also the lance.

“If your cousins want to learn some fighting with knives and short swords - weapons good for close fighting - I could show them some the basics while I’m here,” Yara remarked to Tyrion.

Tyrion’s raised eyebrows showed his surprise, “That’s a very generous offer, Lady Greyjoy.” Both Martyn Lannister and Walder Frey looked keenly interested, “which I believe my cousins will gladly take you up on.”

“Tomorrow morning, then. An hour after sunrise. Where shall we meet?” Yara asked the boys.

“In the north stableyard,” Martyn replied quickly.

“Very well. The north stableyard an hour after sunrise,” Yara replied as she stood up. “Thank you for your hospitality this evening. I’ll retire now.”

The door opened just as Yara reached it, and she almost collided with Casterly Rock’s maester. He stepped aside to let her pass and then bowed as he entered the room. “My lord, a raven has arrived from King’s Landing.”

“Ah, excellent.” Tyrion rose to take the scroll that the maester held out to him. He moved closer to the fireplace to read the message that the King had penned himself.

_“My sister Sansa will soon wed Jon Snow, who will take the Stark name and be named Lord of Winterfell. Brienne, Podrick, and Davos will set sail for the North in two days to attend the wedding. If you wish them to bear a gift on your behalf, send word immediately to arrange it.”_

Tyrion stared in bemusement at the scroll in his hand, and failed to notice his young cousins’ departure from the room. As usual Bran was not asking for his opinion. His note made no mention of Tyrion’s own short-lived marriage to Sansa Stark. It had not been a true marriage, and Tyrion knew it posed no impediment to Sansa marrying her Targaryen cousin. Tyrion had never been in love with Sansa, nor she with him. But it rankled a bit that Bran didn’t even acknowledge that Tyrion might, possibly, have had some mixed feelings about this news. Moreover the King was strongly implying that Tyrion should personally send a gift to his former wife to celebrate a wedding that, Tyrion strongly suspected, was much more welcome to Sansa than theirs had been.

Shaking his head, he walked over to the table, where Genna sat, watching him. He poured himself some wine, and then offered to refill his aunt’s goblet. “Bad news?” she asked, as she held out her cup.

Tyrion sighed. “No, not exactly. The Queen in the North will marry Jon Snow. Speaking of terrible family names and connections, he never took ‘Targaryen’ for himself, and upon wedding Sansa, he’ll take the Stark name”

“A favorable outcome for him,” Genna observed. “He’ll regain the crown he’d surrendered to the Dragon Queen.”

Tyrion frowned, “Perhaps,” he agreed, “but the King doesn’t mention a crown for John Snow. The King’s message says Snow will, ‘take the Stark name and be named Lord of Winterfell.’ You’d think the King would have mentioned a crown if there were one, but I cannot count on that. The King does not confide much in me.”

“A strange way to treat you when he insisted on having you as his Hand,” Genna replied.

“Brandon Stark is very easily the strangest person I’ve ever met, and I’ve met quite a few odd ducks in my time. On some matters we hold very similar views: he has left the rebuilding of King’s Landing largely to me. Although much of the Red Keep was destroyed, the treasure vaults were intact, and as you know we found everything that Jaime had sent from here and also the treasure from Highgarden. You also know that King Brandon allowed half of the Lannister treasure to be returned here, and also gave Bronn half of the loot Jaime took from the Tyrells. The rest is being used to rebuild the city. Those were his ideas, I didn’t have to make the case for the Westerlands or the Reach.”

Genna nodded in appreciation, and Tyrion continued, “And the way the King handled the Iron Bank of Braavos was simply masterful. I’ll be eternally grateful to have witnessed that conversation, to which I barely contributed four sentences. I think I wrote to you about what happened, but would you like to hear the details?”

At a another nod from Genna, he recounted, “Their representative arrived in King’s Landing three months after Bran was named king - two weeks after the Red Keep’s treasury was unearthed. I doubt that was a coincidence. The Iron Bank maintained that it was due what it had agreed to loan Cersei so that she could hire the Golden Company. The city lay in ruins around us, but the Iron Bank will have its due. 

“The King asked their man if the gold had gone first to Cersei, to be sent on to the Golden Company, or if she’d arranged for the Iron Bank to send the gold directly to the Golden Company before they set out for Westeros. Their man replied that the Iron Bank had paid the Golden Company directly, which was more efficient since both were based in Essos. 

“The King then asked if the gold had actually been physically delivered into the mercenaries’ hands. The Bank’s man paused, and I could see he was a bit flustered. He eventually revealed that it had been paid into the Golden Company’s account with the Iron Bank. So, the King observed, the gold had never really left the Iron Bank. Their man was visibly perturbed at this point, and admitted that was so, but he insisted that, since the gold was in the Golden Company’s account, it was no longer the Iron Bank’s property.

“At that point the King stopped asking questions, and simply told the man that he knew that the Iron Bank had made no effort to locate any heirs of any members of the Golden Company since they were wiped out in King’s Landing. The Iron Bank’s man did not dispute this. The King remarked on the Iron Bank’s convenient rule that, after ten years, an idle account with no known owner would revert to the Iron Bank itself. King Bran also noted that the Iron Bank had another rule, one that required would-be heirs to provide credible written documentation of their relationship to a deceased account holder, something that widows and children of sellswords were unlikely to have. Their man did not dispute either of these facts. 

“And so the King declared that the Iron Bank already had the gold it had agreed to lend to Cersei, and that it had no further business in King’s Landing. Their man was speechless for several moments - he could not make out how the King knew the particulars of how the Iron Bank conducted its business, or how the King knew that none of the sellswords’ widows or children had come to Braavos to claim their husbands’ or fathers’ portions of the Golden Company’s gold.

“But eventually their man regained his composure and expressed his sorrow that they were unable to reach an agreeable resolution with the King on the matter of the gold the Bank loaned to Cersei. King Brandon replied that, on the contrary, he had no objection to the Iron Bank’s plan to keep not only the gold it had paid into the Golden Company’s account on Cersei Lannister’s behalf, but also the wealth the Golden Company had deposited there over the years, although it did seem rather unfair to the widows and children of the slain mercenaries. He added that, if the Iron Bank wished, he’d be happy to assist them in identifying the rightful heirs to the Golden Company’s wealth. Their man said that would not be necessary.

“But the King wasn’t finished. He noted that the Iron Bank’s single galley had sailed to King’s Landing but that they had engaged an escort of heavily armed ships from the fleet of the Sea Lord of Braavos, which lurked further out to sea. The King suggested that it might be wise to return to Braavos ahead of a storm that was moving quickly northward from the Summer Sea. When the Iron Bank’s man asked how the King could possibly know this, Brandon Stark replied that he knew it through the same means that he knew whose gold was in the Iron Bank’s vaults, and how many ships were in the Sea Lord’s fleet. He’d warned them about the coming storm as a courtesy, as it was all the same to him whether or not they made it safely home to Braavos. Either way, he said, they had no further business in King’s Landing. And with that, the Iron Bank’s man left.”

Genna laughed in appreciation, “Very neatly handled. But you were saying before that the King doesn’t take you into his confidence?”

Tyrion sighed, “On other matters, no he does not. He handles much of his correspondence himself, or has Samwell Tarly scribe for him when he’s in King’s Landing. And he’s not forthcoming about his communications with men like Prince Manfred Martell, or Lord Hightower in Oldtown. Right before I left to come here, Bronn told me that I should congratulate him on his betrothal to the oldest Hightower daughter. It’s a good match, and necessary for Bronn if he’s to be the premier lord of The Reach, but I’d heard not a whisper about it until Bronn told me. The King knew all about it, however, and had already agreed that Bronn will step down from his role as Master of Coin when he marries. After that he’ll be living at Highgarden with his new bride.

“When I asked the King who he thought might take Bronn’s place as Master of Coin, he said that since he wasn’t planning to levy any taxes on the people, he didn’t see a need for a Master of Coin, and that he was sure that I could handle the kingdom’s finances, such as they were. And in truth ... well, the King’s expenses are very few indeed. Certainly compared to Robert’s excesses —”

“He’s not going to levy taxes?” Genna asked in disbelief. “How will he run the country?” 

“My question exactly,” Tyrion sighed in frustration. “I don’t understand what he’s doing and he’s not chosen to explain himself to me. I just get cryptic suggestions from him, like this one.”

“I suppose it’s not to be wondered that this young man knows very little of statecraft or finances,” Genna observed. “And by the way, as you know the Crown owes Casterly Rock many, many thousands. Don’t look at me like that, I’m not suggesting that we attempt to collect on debts that were incurred by your brother-in-law and your sister. I’m reminding you of this because ... well ... there’s something you should know. I haven’t known quite how to mention this but now’s as good a time as any. You’ll recall that shortly after Robert’s death, Kevan informed Tywin that the Rock’s gold had run out.”

Tyrion nodded, “yes, I recall very well.”

Genna looked slightly abashed as she confessed, “that wasn’t entirely true.”

“What!?!” Tyrion exclaimed. “How, but ... I’ve gone into the mine myself. There was nothing left - the gold veins have been completely exhausted!”

Genna sighed as she explained, “the two large tunnels that extend from the main cavern, have both been extended to the ends of the gold veins that we’ve extracted from for centuries. Those tunnels are indeed entirely tapped out. But the northern one has three minor branches, and at least two of those still have gold.”

Tyrion was amazed. “Then why did production stop? If ever we’d needed the gold, it was in the years after Robert’s death, when we were fighting on multiple fronts! How long have you known about this? Did Father know?”

Genna shook her head. “No. Eventually Kevan would have told him but Tywin ... died before he could. Shortly after your father’s death Kevan sent me a letter at Riverrun, telling me that after the main tunnels were tapped out he’d had the chief miner shut the works down entirely. He thought the amount of money your father had lent the Crown was reckless - impossible to repay - and that it had long ago ceased to be a wise investment.”

Tyrion continued to struggle to grasp what his aunt was telling him. “May I see this letter? You have astonished me, Aunt Genna. For one thing I never imagined that Uncle Kevan had it in him to thwart Father like that.”

“I was as amazed as you are right now. Unfortunately I don’t have the letter any longer - I burned all my letters before we left Riverrun.”

“Who else knows?” Tyrion asked.

“Prisham Toller, the chief miner, and his two sons. They’ve been sworn to secrecy and I’m confident they’ll keep it, for they know our garrison is stretched thin as it is and we’d struggle to keep thieves out of the mine if it were known. Most of our miners are gone now - they turned to soldiering when the mine closed, so we’ll also be challenged to find workers if we decide to resume. Besides Toller and his sons, Martyn and Red W— and Walder know. They took me down into the mine shaft, with Toller, so that I could see for myself what Kevan had described. The gold is there - these veins aren’t as thick as the old ones and the gold will be harder to extract. But it’s real enough.”

Tyrion was silent, thinking hard.

“Do you think the King knows?” Genna asked.

“I have no idea. But I shall tell him upon my return.”

“Do you think that’s wise, if he doesn’t trust you?”

“Aunt, if I wish to be trusted I must be trustworthy.”

“That’s something your brother would have said.”

“Jaime was a man of his word, for all that he was reviled as an oath breaker. When Father gave him a sword of Valyrian steel reforged from Ned Stark’s greatsword, Jaime gave it to Brienne of Tarth before he sent her out to find Sansa Stark. He’d sworn to Catelyn that Sansa would be safely returned to her, and he did all that he could to fulfill that promise. And in the end, eventually, Brienne did find Sansa, and kept her safe.”

Genna nodded, and yawned. “The evening grows late and I’m old. ‘Tis time I retired. We can discuss the mine further tomorrow, although best not to do so in front of the Greyjoy woman.”

Tyrion barely registered what his aunt was saying, as he suddenly knew exactly what gift he should send to Sansa for her wedding.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon’s wedding day dawns bright

On the morning of her third wedding, Sansa woke just before dawn. Calla hadn’t come up yet, so Sansa pulled open the shutters of one of the windows and looked out at the lightening sky, where the morning star shone brightly. A good omen. Sansa sighed and leaned against the windowsill, reflecting on the last month.

She and Jon had thought to wed quickly, within a week and with a minimum of fuss. Sansa was long past dreaming of her wedding day. But when they’d announced their plans that evening at dinner, after the clapping and toasts and congratulations had died down, Lady Leonora had frowned and argued gently against a small, quick affair. _“The North’s first royal wedding in hundreds of years, in the height of summer, with the countryside just getting back on its feet after years of war and terror- I think your lords and their ladies would be greatly disappointed to not have the opportunity to come to Winterfell for the celebration. If you delay just a bit, even a month, we could pull something together and invite the nobles and landholders. They might not all be able to come, but they’ll appreciate being asked.”_

Sansa had recognized that Lady Leonora was right; moreover if many of the Northern lords were on hand to witness the wedding, and Sansa naming Jon the Lord of Winterfell, it would perhaps be more widely understood that he would not be named king. And so they decided that ravens would be sent to every occupied holdfast and town, announcing their wedding in a month’s time. All of the North’s nobility would be invited.

Two days later Sansa had received a raven from King’s Landing, written by Bran himself, congratulating her and Jon, and advising them that Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne, and Ser Davos Seaworth would arrive in ten days, with the hope of not being too late to see them wed. Sansa had smiled and then showed the scroll to Jon, who had spent far less time speaking with the Three-Eyed Raven than she had, and was thus more taken aback than she by Bran’s apparent omniscience.

 _“Is he always watching us?”_ he’d wondered uncomfortably. Sansa had assured him that she did not think that Bran watched them all that much, and that he’d probably been checking in more frequently of late because he knew that Jon was coming back to Winterfell. _“You see, he seems to think that we’ll marry within the next week or so - or at least that’s what he believed when he wrote this message. He doesn’t know **everything**.”_

Her reunion with Brienne and Pod was joyous, when they’d arrived as Bran’s note had forecast; and Jon was happy to see Ser Davos again. Sansa had been glad the older man had stayed in King’s Landing after the Dragon’s Sack. Bran had given Dragonstone to Ser Davos, which sounded like a fine idea to Sansa. She’d never entirely trusted Ser Davos, in part because she wasn’t sure that he trusted or liked her; she’d caught him frowning in her direction many times. Moreover, the man’s enthusiasm for the Dragon Queen had been apparent when she was at Winterfell. Sansa knew that it was foolish to pin blame for what happened to Jon on Ser Davos, but she couldn’t help but resent that the man’s advanced years had not brought him enough wisdom to recognize a tyrant when he saw one. On the other hand, he’d stayed for many years with Stannis Baratheon, a notoriously severe autocrat, so perhaps Ser Davos was simply too accustomed to self-important dictators to recognize the folly of encouraging Jon to ally (and lie) with the Dragon Queen.

However, Ser Davos’s demeanor toward her had undergone a marked transformation when he’d arrived in Winterfell. He was full of warm smiles and congratulations for her and Jon both, and Sansa had overheard him say to Jon that if he’d known two years ago that Jon would marry his _cousin_ Sansa Stark, he’d have taken a very different view of many things. Jon had laughed quietly in response; Sansa had not asked Jon what Ser Davos had been referring to. It didn’t matter — the old man would soon enough return south.

She and Brienne had gone for several long rides, and had sat up late into the night talking. Their relationship had changed - Brienne was no longer Sansa’s sworn sword, which left more room for friendship to bloom on the foundation of mutual trust, respect, and affection the two women had for each other. They’d once cried together over Jon and Jaime, both convinced that they’d never see the men they loved again. And Brienne had not. Her pain was still there, diminished slightly over time, but evident in her eyes, particularly when she thought no one was looking. She was glad to see Sansa so happy, but Brienne confessed that Winterfell was haunted for her by the memories of the all-too-brief happiness she’d found with Jaime.

Podrick had accompanied Brienne, much to Sansa’s delight. She’d immediately taken to the kind-hearted young man whose peripatetic training had not yielded a particularly robust fighter — but Podrick had other qualities that endeared him to Sansa. He knew more about Westerosi heraldry than Sansa herself, and songs and stories as well. He had a very fine singing voice - Sansa had wept the first time she’d heard Podrick sing a ballad about Florian and Jonquil. Podrick and Sansa had often sung together in the evenings, during the idyllic days between their destruction of the Boltons and the Battle of Winterfell. Jon and Brienne had enjoyed the music ... and it suddenly occurred to Sansa that those times were when she’d most frequently caught Ser Davos’s dark looks. Perhaps what she’d thought was a dislike of her was simply a dislike of music. Not that it mattered.

What she loved the most about Podrick Payne was his dogged devotion to Brienne. Brienne could be prickly, particularly about being a woman warrior and knight in a society that made no room for such. Brienne’s faithfulness to herself - a tall, strong, woman who was skilled at fighting and very uncomfortable in a dress - was something Sansa had always admired about her friend. Brienne was very sensitive about the disparaging remarks - some off-handed and casual, others more deliberately cutting - that came her way in a constant stream from many of the men and women she encountered.

But never from Podrick, whose occasional clumsiness was a cause of consternation to the meticulous Brienne. He’d borne her bouts of impatience with his mistakes and lack of skill with good grace, determined to learn and do better. Pod _liked_ and _admired_ Brienne, he’d recognized her sterling character and impeccable fighting skills, and knew that he could find no better master to train him. His humility and his ability to see past exteriors to what lay beneath was not limited to Brienne; it was an intelligence that Sansa thought would serve Ser Podrick Payne very well in life. She knew that Bran had a similar view of the young man.

Calla entered the room with a soft knock, and smiled when she saw Sansa at the window. “Good morning, Your Grace. It looks to be a lovely day, perfect for a wedding!”

“Good morning Calla,” Sansa turned away from the window to return the greeting. She turned back for one last look at the morning star, as she said, “I think it will be a lovely day indeed.”

——

Jon rose with the sun on the morning of his wedding day. He had little to do that day in the hours before sunset, when Sansa would formally name him a Stark and the Lord of Winterfell, and then they would go out to the godswood to be joined as man and wife. He had a special cloak that was made for just this occasion - a lovely, lightweight cloak that wouldn’t be too heavy for a warm summer evening.

He’d not given any thought to what cloak he would place over Sansa’s shoulders when he took her to wife, and so had been startled, wary, and then gratified when Wylla Manderly - she of the green hair and dark suspicions - had approached him the day after he and Sansa had announced their intention to wed. Wylla had come straight to the point, apologizing for mistrusting him at first and for having had the bad manners to make it known. He’d accepted her apology with ease, and asked what had changed her mind about him. _“Well you’re clearly not here to take her crown, since you’re refusing to be named King when you become her husband. I’d feared that you would. But I was wrong. And I see how much you love each other.” Then she’d asked if he’d chosen the cloak that he’d give to Sansa during the wedding ceremony, and when Jon admitted, with dawning dismay, that he had not, Wylla offered to make him one. Three weeks later, she’d presented him with the cloak: a light silvery grey, embroidered with a large Stark wolf sigil on the back, and lined with a deep blue silk. “She’s not seen it - Wynafryd and I worked on it in our room,” she assured him. As he’d thanked Wylla profusely, admiring the beauty of the Manderly girls’ handiwork, he’d understood why Sansa loved them like sisters._

This morning, Jon recognized that he was a bit nervous, and wondered if Sansa was, too. Perhaps not - this would be her third wedding, after all. And he realized that he was probably more nervous about the ceremony in which Sansa, as Queen, would bestow upon him his mother’s name, Stark, and name him the Lord of Winterfell. The querulous Lord Glover would be among the gathered lords and ladies, and although the Queen’s intentions were widely known, Jon worried that there might be grumbles of dissent, or whispers about his Targaryen heritage. Lord Robin Arryn, Sansa’s cousin on her mother’s side, would also be in attendance, and in the days since he’d arrived at Winterfell with his guardian, Yohn Royce, Jon had the impression that the proud young Lord of the Vale viewed him with some disdain, although he was never anything but polite within Jon’s hearing.

But there would be friendly faces, too. Ser Davos had come with Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne. And Lord Commander Mallister had arrived last night with Maester Taras and those men of the Night’s Watch whom Jon knew personally - including the two rangers, Riler Myle and Darrin Hill, who’d delivered Sansa’s letter to him at Ruddy Hall. There’d not been enough time to get word to Tormund - Jon would not ask any man of the Night’s Watch to serve as his errand boy - and Sansa thought that might be for the best, for much as she liked Tormund, she knew that his blatant romantic interest in Brienne was unrequited and made Brienne uncomfortable. Jon knew she was right; they would invite Tormund to Winterfell after the wedding.

Jon felt Sam’s absence more keenly. Podrick had carried a letter from Sam, which was full of news of Sam’s studies at the Citadel, his work with Bran, and his growing family, now safely settled with his mother and sister at Horn Hill. Gilly had given birth to a daughter, who was named after Sam’s mother, Melessa. Jon’s head swam as he read through Sam’s matter-of-fact account of what he’d been doing over the last year - it was no wonder that he’d not been able to come North for Jon’s wedding. But he did send his warmest congratulations, noting, _“I liked the Lady Sansa, now Queen Sansa, from the moment I met her. She was so welcoming to me, and to Gilly and little Sam when we were at Winterfell. She asked no awkward questions and never made Gilly feel the difference in their upbringings. She is gracious and kind, the very best sort of woman to my way of thinking. And Gilly shares my view. As I write this now, I have not yet had the chance to share your happy news with Gilly at Horn Hill, but I know she will be very pleased for you both.”_

Sam was happily settled in a busy life devoted to things he was suited for, wed to a woman he loved, and building a family. This was exactly what Jon wanted for himself. And today this new chapter of his life would commence.

Howland Reed had arrived at Winterfell ahead of any of the wedding guests, because Sansa had summoned him weeks earlier so that he and Jon might speak. Jon had spent many hours with the older man, who was quiet, quick-footed, and sharply observant. The Lord of Greywater Watch had regaled Jon and Sansa with the story - which Jon was hearing for the first time - of how he’d met Lyanna and Ned Stark, and their brothers Brandon and Benjen, at the great tourney at Harrenhall. _Upon hearing the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, Sansa had exclaimed, “Doesn’t that sound exactly like something Arya would do, Jon? People always said that Arya bore a strong resemblance to Aunt Lyanna, but I’d always thought they just meant that they both had the Stark look. I never heard Father mention anything about his sister fighting in a joust, did you? Oh, I do wish Arya were here too to hear this. It’s no wonder she was Father’s favorite.”_

_Jon had disputed that, insisting that Ned Stark had loved Sansa very much. She’d smiled at him, laying her hand on his arm and then slanting a glance at Lord Reed, before turning again to Jon. “Of course he did. Father loved all of us. But there’s no denying that he preferred Arya to me. He ... didn’t really know what to make of me. Obviously he didn’t sew, or play music, or read poetry. He’d not been raised under the stern watch of a Septa - he’d not been raised in the faith of The Seven. When Lady was killed in place of Arya’s direwolf, Father felt badly for me, so he gave me a doll. I hadn’t played with dolls in years, but Father hadn’t known that. I think that he was at a loss when it came to most women. He certainly was out of his depth when dealing with Cersei Lannister.”_

_Lord Reed had offered, “I believe you’ve the right of it, Your Grace. As a young man, your father was quite awkward and shy around women. Catelyn Tully had initially been betrothed to his brother, Brandon, but when he was killed Lord Tully asked that Ned take his place. I was with Ned on his wedding day, and he was very nervous, for your mother was beautiful and very much a lady - much as you are yourself, Your Grace. Ned was worried that he didn’t measure up in her eyes to Brandon, and that his manners were too rough. He’d not expected to wed such a highborn lady himself.”_

_“My father’s mother had died when he was quite young - I think soon after Uncle Benjen was born,” Sansa explained. “And then he was sent to foster with Jon Arryn, who’d lost his second wife by then but hadn’t yet married my Aunt Lysa. It’s hardly surprising that Father wasn’t comfortable around highborn southern women - the only lady he really knew growing up was his sister, Lyanna ... and it doesn’t sound like she was a typical young lady.”_

_Jon had observed, “Growing up, Arya was a hoyden who wanted nothing to do with ladies’ things - she was above all interested in learning to fight. And eventually she did learn to fight, very well.” He’d turned to Howland Reed to ask, “is that what Lyanna, my mother, was like?”_

_Lord Reed had been silent for a moment as he considered the question before responding, “Nay, I do not think that Lyanna was exactly like her niece, although I’ve never met Arya Stark. Lyanna was indeed raised among boys and men, although I think there must have been some women there to teach her, for she was not without ladylike graces, and I do know that she was quite a skilled seamstress, in addition to her skills with lance and sword. She wore pretty dresses that she sewed herself, and took care with her hair. She loved minstrel songs. Oh, and she could ride like the wind! I think Lyanna was the pet of her father and older brothers, I never heard them deny her anything, and although Ned had immediately known her when the Knight of the Laughing Tree entered the lists at Harrenhall, he never chastised her for it. Brandon Stark rode to his death when they found Lyanna had gone missing, and then Lord Rickon was killed too because of it. She was well-loved by her father and brothers. Ned took her secret to the grave and did all he could to keep her son safe.”_

_“At considerable cost to his reputation and his marriage,” Jon had stated flatly. “I wish that hadn’t been necessary.”_

_Howland Reed had frowned as he said, “Make no mistake, it was. Robert Baratheon in his prime was a very dangerous foe indeed, and his love for your mother might be better called obsession. He hit Rhaegar - your father - so hard that the man’s armor yielded to his hammer. And his hatred didn’t dissipate when your father was dead. When we found you and your mother, it wasn’t clear if the armed guards were there to protect her or to keep her prisoner. They would not let us pass and they would not say why. Once we’d fought our way past them, I remained in the tower’s lower chamber, while Ned went up to his sister. Lyanna’s midwife explained to me that they knew that Rhaegar was dead, and they also knew what had happened in King’s Landing, which was why, even though Ned was Lyanna’s brother, the Kingsguard weren’t willing to risk letting us near Rhaegar’s new-born son.”_

In another conversation, Jon had asked Howland Reed what he could tell him about his father. _Lord Reed had looked at him thoughtfully and said, “truly, not much. I never actually met him, although I got to see him up close at the tourney. I’m just a small crannogman from an obscure place far from King’s Landing - I wasn’t nearly important enough to be of interest to a Targaryen prince. But of course it was at Harrenhall that your mother caught his eye. And I’m quite sure that that wasn’t her intention at all. She’d been very taken with the Crown Prince, as I expect most of the young ladies were. He was very handsome, and sang beautifully. Lyanna had a great love for music. But it was not with the Crown Prince in mind that she’d fought off the squires who’d accosted me, nor was that why she’d set out to defeat them as the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Your Uncle Benjen and I had helped her put on her armor and mount up to enter the first round of the joust. After beating those squires she made a hasty exit, for she’d not the strength nor skill to joust with grown men, nor did she want her father or her older brothers to know what she’d done. She had me and Benjen help her get her armor off under a tree behind the tents. She’d just removed the last piece when we suddenly heard the Crown Prince’s voice, very close by, asking the squires and knights who were still in their tents if they’d seen the Knight of the Laughing Tree._

_”Lyanna shooed me and Benjen away, telling us that the Prince would never suspect a girl, which she unmistakably was, despite the fact that she was wearing breeches and one of her brother’s old shirts at the time. Benjen and I scooted up the tree and hid ourselves just as your father came upon your mother with the discarded armor. She’d feigned that she’d just discovered it herself as she was looking for her little brother. She wasn’t very convincing and Rhaegar didn’t sound like he believed her. He asked if she’d seen the man whose armor lay at their feet, and she said she’d not. She observed that the armor was motley and old, so the man who owned it must not be a man of means and surely couldn’t be very important. Rhaegar replied that the man had just beaten three squires in the first round of the joust that was continuing as they spoke. Lyanna expressed surprise and said she hadn’t watched the joust, and repeated that she was looking for her brother. He then asked her for her name, and introduced himself. I couldn’t see their faces from my hiding place, but I had the impression that Rhaegar had not for a moment believed your mother’s story about finding the discarded armor. But I think he had been impressed by how pretty, quick thinking, and valiant she was. Your mother was very polite and ladylike, despite her clothing, and I think she charmed your father in that moment. I don’t know if he suspected that it had been your mother who’d worn the armor and won the joust, or if he thought she was covering for someone else. At any event he picked up the Knight of the Laughing Tree’s painted shield and walked off with it. And that seemed to be the end of the matter. Except that, at the end of the tourney, your father ignored his own wife to crown Lyanna Stark the queen of love and beauty. The next time I laid eyes on your father, he was already dead, killed by Robert Baratheon.”_

_“He’d had a wife and young children who were killed in the war that began when he ran off with my mother,” Jon had stated baldly. “What sort of man does that? The high septon at the time recorded that my father had set aside his first wife and named his children with her bastards. I think he cannot have known what he was dooming them to, had they lived.”_

_“I’m reasonably sure that he did not,” the older man replied. “As I’ve said, I was not nearly important enough to have ever had occasion to speak with a member of the Targaryen royal family. But you cannot imagine how they were viewed before Robert’s Rebellion. They were like gods - their emblems were on the coins we used to buy things in the market, flags with their sigil flew above even the most remote castles. It didn’t matter how far from King’s Landing you were, all knew that the Targaryens ruled over all in the Seven Kingdoms. And they looked different from other men in Westeros, with coloring that harkened back to their roots in Old Valyria. From what I’ve heard, they actually thought of themselves as gods, above all other men in the realm. This was true even in your father’s time, despite the fact that by then the Targaryens hadn’t had a living dragon for more than a century. I don’t pretend to have known your father at all, but my guess is that he did not anticipate the consequences of his actions, because it never occurred to him that anyone would dare to interfere with the Targaryen Crown Prince. Your mother didn’t foresee what happened, either, but she was only fifteen when she ran off with Rhaegar, so that’s not to be marveled at.”_

_“But how did — do you know ... it was about a year after the tourney at Harrenhall that my mother disappeared with my father, while she was traveling to Riverrun for her brother Brandon’s wedding to Catelyn Tully. Did she go off with him willingly? Even though he was a married man? That just doesn’t seem like something the valiant girl you’ve described would do.”_

_If there was something worse than believing himself to be a bastard, Jon had thought, it would be knowing that he was the product of rape, a rape that had ruined and ultimately taken his mother’s life. Bran had told him that his parents were in love when they married. And while Jon didn’t think Bran was lying about that, it didn’t make sense to him at all._

_Howland Reed had smiled sadly at Jon. “Surely by now you’ve discovered that men and women can be both good and bad. We all are, in fact. I think you’re right to ask what kind of man Rhaegar Targaryen was, that he could abandon his first wife and their children. No one ever suggested that Elia Martell was anything other than good and kind. I saw her with my own eyes, and she was as beautiful as your mother was - not that that should matter. But I’ve never heard anyone suggest at any point that Rhaegar’s abandonment of Elia was warranted or in any way deserved. He was not known to be licentious, and so his elopement with your mother was so extraordinary and out of character that most seemed to assume he must have had a good reason for doing what he did. And perhaps he did, for all I know. But whatever his plan, he hadn’t reckoned with Robert Baratheon, and so it all came to naught._

_“Your mother was just fifteen when she left with Rhaegar; she’d been fourteen when she met him. She was still an idealistic child - wise in some matters, but still very naive and foolish in many others. She was not a vain girl, not at all, but she was accustomed to being indulged and petted by her fathers and brothers, and I never saw her with any girls her own age. She simply might not have given a thought for Rhaegar’s wife and children when she ran off with him. But I know they were much on her mind when your uncle found her. He said that she was weeping, in pain and regret, not just about Rhaegar, but about her father, and brother, and all of the Northmen who’d been killed. And she told Ned that she’d never meant to hurt Elia, never dreamed that any harm would come to her or her children. Rhaegar had apparently led your mother to believe that Elia hated King’s Landing and would have been happy to return to Dorne to raise her children in a sunny climate.”_

Jon sighed as he reflected on the incredible chain of events that led to this day. So much would be different if ... things had been different. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he decided to see if Lord Reed would like to go out for an early morning ride.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last: the wedding

Winterfell’s great hall was packed with rows of men and women, the lords and ladies of the North and honored guests like Lord Yohn Royce and the young Lord Robert Arryn of the Vale. A narrow passage in the middle of the room had been marked off with rope, leading from the main entrance in the back of the hall to the dais in the front, where the Queen’s carved wooden throne sat.

At sunset, Queen Sansa Stark entered Winterfell’s great hall, and everyone in the room bowed as she passed on her way to the dais. The young queen looked especially beautiful, her long red hair loose around her shoulders, the Stark crown upon her head. Her dress was a shimmering blue so light it almost looked silver, and was embroidered with winter roses in a deeper blue, which set off her hair and and echoed the color of her eyes. Upon reaching her throne, she turned to the assembly and smiled, and then seated herself. She then nodded to Maester Wolkan, standing by the main entrance, who ducked out of the room.

A few moments passed before her cousin, Jon Snow, entered the great hall. He wore a simple but well-cut tunic in dark grey silk, over a crisp white linen shirt and black breeches. Longclaw was strapped to his belt. He followed the path that the Queen had just taken, stopping at the dais, where he bowed his head, saying “Your Grace.”

Sansa nodded at him, and spoke in a clear voice, a bit more slowly than she usually did, so that her words would carry throughout the hall. “Jon Snow, I myself read the page of the High Septon Maynard’s diary, which recorded the marriage of your mother, Lyanna Stark, and your father, Rhaegar Targaryen. Although you grew up believing yourself to be the bastard son of Lord Eddark Stark, and were therefore called Snow, you are in fact the legitimate son of Eddard’s beloved sister, Lyanna. Now that this is known, I am told that you prefer to honor your mother’s memory by taking her name, Stark. Is this so?”

Jon looked at her solemnly as he replied, “It is, Your Grace.”

Sansa rose to her feet, “Very well, I declare now in front of this assembly that you shall henceforth be known to all as ‘Jon Stark’, the true-born son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.”

The room was very quiet. Jon gazed up at Sansa through tear-filled eyes. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Sansa smiled down at him. “Please kneel, Jon Stark,” she said quietly.

Jon drew his longsword, and went down on one knee before Sansa, much as he had when he’d first arrived at Winterfell a month earlier. Sansa resumed speaking in the louder voice she used to make sure all in the room could hear, “Jon Stark, my beloved cousin, you have fought for the North and bled for the North, time and time again. You are of the North and love it as much as any of us here. I would reward you for your bravery and devotion to the North and its people, and so today I name you the Lord of Winterfell, a title which will pass to your firstborn. Please rise, Lord Stark.”

Jon rose to his feet, partially blinded by tears. Sansa announced to the crowd, “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen, I give you Jon Stark, the Lord of Winterfell.” The room erupted in loud applause and cheering.

“Turn around,” Sansa quietly urged him. Jon wiped his eyes with the corner of his sleeve, and then did as he was bade. He found himself shaking hands, first with Lord Commander Mallister, and then with Wyman Manderly, and then with dozens of other men. In the meantime, Sansa slipped out of the great hall, through a side door. 

After he’d shaken the hands and accepted the good wishes of seemingly every man in the North, Jon spotted Ser Davos standing near the door that Sansa left through. The older man was holding the beautiful grey cloak, carefully folded. Podrick stood next to him. Jon made his way over to them. Through the open window, the sunset had deepened into dusk.

“Are you ready, Lord Stark?” Ser Davos asked. 

Jon smiled, “Yes,” and donned the cloak that he’d soon place on Sansa’s shoulders.

——

As dusk deepened into twilight, Jon Stark entered the godswood with Ser Davos and Podrick Payne. He stopped briefly when he neared maesters Wolkan and Taras, greeting them quietly, since he had not done so earlier in the great hall. He smiled and nodded at many others, and then drew up to where Howland Reed stood beneath the weirwood tree.

Soon after, Sansa entered the godswood flanked by Brienne and her cousin Robin, who each carried a candle. 

Before they were in earshot of the group assembled around the weirwood, Robin said softly, “Are you sure you’re marrying the right cousin, dearest Sansa?” Sansa gave him a side-long glance and a knowing smile. “Quite sure, Robin, thank you.” Brienne glowered at him over the top of Sansa’s head; he gave her a saucy grin in return.

They stopped a few feet short of where Jon stood next to Howland Reed.

The Lord of Greywater Watch bowed to the Queen in the North and then asked in a voice that all could hear, "Who comes before the Old Gods this night?"

Brienne stepped forward and answered clearly, "Sansa, of House Stark, and the Queen in the North, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, true-born and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?"

Jon stepped forward, his voice a bit gruff but still audible to the assembled guests, "Jon, of House Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, and her cousin. Who gives her?"

Brienne answered, “Brienne of Tarth, once the Queen’s sworn sword, and now Captain of the Kingsguard to her brother, King Brandon Stark of the Six Kingdoms.” She looked at Robin, now solemn, who stepped forward with Sansa and placed her hand on Jon’s extended arm, as he added, “and Robin Arryn, Lord of the Vale and also cousin to Queen Sansa Stark.”

Howland Reed then addressed the Queen, “Sansa Stark, do you take this man as your husband?"

Sansa replied with shining eyes, in the same clear voice that she’d used in the great hall, “I do.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa receive some unlooked for wedding gifts

Jon’s head was swirling though he’d been careful to only sip at the wine that flowed freely in Winterfell’s great hall and the main courtyard. As large and rambling as the old castle was, there weren’t nearly enough bedrooms to host all of the guests, so the Stouts of Goldgrass, the Flints of Widow’s Watch (not to be confused with the Flints of the Mountains), and a score of others had pitched large tents to serve as their sleeping quarters. Some of their guests had joined him and Sansa when they fought the Boltons, others had turned down their plea for assistance, while still others he’d never met. Yet all were eager to congratulate their Queen and the new Lord of Winterfell, who were seated side by side at the high table. Increasingly inebriated men made increasingly bawdy toasts as the night wore on.

All brought gifts, even the poorest petty lord. Jon had been uneasy when men wearing simple homespun tunics quietly approached the newlyweds to tell them that they’d brought gifts of livestock, or presented them with furs or handicrafts. “We shouldn’t be taking from these folk, when they have so little,” he’d whispered. With a gentle squeeze of his hand, Sansa had replied, “We must, to refuse would be insulting. They wouldn’t have come if they felt they couldn’t afford to, and we must respect their choices and honor their generosity.”

Brienne and Podrick approached them, bearing their gifts. Bowing, Podrick presented his first, a small, finely carved hand harp. “I know Your Grace loves music, and you sing so beautifully. You’d once told me that you’d brought your harp with you to King’s Landing but had to leave it behind when you fled.” Sansa was very touched, and thanked Podrick warmly as she took the harp and gave its strings a tentative strum.

Podrick bowed again and said, “If it please you, Your Grace, my lord, I also have a gift from Lord Tyrion Lannister.” Sansa and Jon exchanged a look, before Sansa replied, “How unexpected.” Podrick laid a long, flat, hinged wooden box on the table. The box was unadorned and not particularly handsome. “There’s a note inside that Lord Tyrion asked to be delivered with the gift.” 

Jon opened the lid: nestled inside several layers of cloth was a sword a bit shorter than a longsword; the image of a stag’s head was etched onto its crossguard. Made of Valyrian steel, this was a very fine, expensive gift that, curiously, was unaccompanied by a scabbard. Jon glanced at Sansa, whose face had suddenly become closed and unreadable.

“Widow’s Wail,” she said quietly. “The sword Tywin Lannister had made for Joffrey from Father’s greatsword.”

Jon reached into the box to pick up the scroll that bore the message from Tyrion. He broke the seal and unrolled the scroll. “It’s addressed to you,” he said, as he handed the scroll to Sansa.

Still staring at the sword in the box, Sansa shook her head. “Would you read it to me, please?”

Jon took a breath and read, “To the Queen in the North, my dearest Sansa, greetings on your wedding day. I hope that you will accept my heartfelt good wishes for your marriage, at last, to a man who might actually deserve you. If you find that he does not, and you wish to give your first husband another try, I would of course accept with the greatest alacrity. But since that is very unlikely to happen, I offer you this gift, which really belongs to the Starks anyway. You know its history. It belongs in Winterfell, with you, your husband, and what I trust will one day be a large and very happy family. Yours most sincerely, Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Hand of King Brandon Stark.”

When Jon had finished reading Tyrion’s note, Brienne stepped forward. She undid her sword belt and, with a bow, gently laid her still-sheathed longsword on the table, beside the box that contained Tyrion’s gift. “Your Grace, my lord, my gift to you is the sibling to the sword that Lord Tyrion has returned to your family. Oathkeeper was also made from Lord Eddard Stark’s greatsword, Ice, and as you know it was given to me by Jaime Lannister when he sent me to search for Catelyn Stark’s daughters. That purpose was long-ago realized, and it is only right to return the sword to its rightful owners, the Starks —”

Sansa stood up abruptly. There were tears in her eyes and her voice trembled slightly when she interrupted, “No, Brienne, no. That sword is yours. I will not accept it. Lord Jaime gave it to you, and you have wielded it well, in service of the Starks. You serve my brother now. It is only right for you to keep this sword, and to pass it on to your heirs.”

Brienne had first paled and then blushed at Sansa’s words. “Your Grace I feel it is only right that this sword be returned to your house, and —”

This time it was Jon who interrupted her. He’d risen to stand beside Sansa, and had closed the lid on the wooden box on the table. “Let’s continue this discussion elsewhere. Ser Brienne, please bring your sword.” He picked up the box with his left hand, and extended his right arm to his wife. Bewildered, Sansa took it, and asked, “where are we going? What do you have in mind?”

“You’ll see,” he said, as he headed for the side door that Sansa had used earlier that evening to exit the great hall. He turned to make sure that Brienne and Podrick were following. They were just a few paces behind, Brienne stiff and red-faced, Podrick carrying her sword.

“We’ll be back soon,” Jon said to Maester Wolkan as he opened the door.

Jon held the door open as the other three filed through, and then he turned to close it firmly. He rejoined Sansa, again taking her arm, and said briskly, “We won’t be back soon, at least Sansa and I won’t. But now, let’s go up to the Queen’s office, where we can discuss the matter of Brienne’s sword in peace.”

Jon led them on a rather circuitous route to Sansa’s office, one that neatly avoided any of the public rooms or courtyards where guests were gathered. Jon opened the door to Sansa’s office and ushered them in.

Sansa had used the time it had taken to reach her office to gather her thoughts. When Jon closed the door, she approached Brienne and said softly, “Without you I wouldn’t be alive today. You have been my protector, my adviser, and the truest friend I’ve ever had. You have served the Starks very well and you continue to serve them. And it’s only right that you do so with the sword that Jaime Lannister armed you with when he sent you to search for me and my sister.”

“Your Grace,” Brienne began.

“Please, Brienne. Hear me.” Sansa turned to her desk, where Jon had placed the wooden box. She opened it and took out the sword it contained. “Joffrey taunted me when he was given this by his grandfather. It was he who named it, “Widow’s Wail” - an unworthy name for such a fine blade. I hated knowing what they’d done to Father’s sword, and that it was in Joffrey’s hateful hands. But it wasn’t for long. I understand that Ser Jaime carried this sword after Joffrey’s death, and I recognized it when he came here to join our stand against the Night King. By then I was glad it was in the hands of someone who was using it to defend Winterfell.

“But Ser Jaime is gone, and this sword should not remain with the Lannisters. Tyrion was right to return it. But that doesn’t mean that you would be right to surrender Oathkeeper. It is your sword now. Ice cannot be remade. My father is gone, and so is his sword. As you know, we have a plan to repurpose the ice of The Wall to serve the North in a different way. It remains to be seen if we’ll be successful in that, but in a very similar way, my father’s sword has been repurposed, and it too will serve the North and the Starks in new ways. I don’t know yet what we’ll do with this—” she nodded at the sword she held in her hands — “but I want Oathkeeper with you, and for you to pass it on to your heirs. There is an unbreakable bond between you and my family, Brienne. Please do me the honor of keeping Oathbreaker, as an enduring reminder of your friendship with the Starks, and the North.”

Brienne bowed her head. “It is I who am honored, deeply honored, Your Grace. Thank you. But this leaves me without a wedding gift for you.”

Jon interjected, “On the contrary, Brienne. You have given us the perfect gift: the chance to get out of that room without hundreds of people following us and insisting on a bedding ceremony.”

Podrick snickered softly. Brienne smiled too and said, “that’s very well, my lord, but when they discover that you and the Queen are gone I feel quite certain that at least some will come looking for you.” With a glance at Pod, Brienne continued, “Ser Podrick and I would be honored to keep guard outside your door tonight.”

Sansa smiled at her friend, but Jon said, “thank you for the offer, Brienne, but I don’t think that will be necessary.” He walked behind Sansa’s desk and dropped out of sight momentarily as he knelt behind it. He soon popped back up and walked back to slip his arm around his wife’s waist, with Ghost padding silently behind him.

Brienne and Podrick shared a smile. The foursome exited the office, accompanied by the large direwolf, and headed towards the Queen’s chambers, with Brienne and Podrick in the lead, to intercept anyone who might have wandered that way. Fortunately they encountered no one, and when they reached the door of Sansa’s bedchamber, Sansa embraced first Brienne, and then Podrick as she bade them goodnight. Jon surprised the two knights by following suit. As the door closed behind the newlyweds, Ghost took up his post by curling up against the doorframe. Brienne and Podrick shared another smile, and returned to the festivities.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last: the wedding night neither of them had quite imagined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story grew to be much, much longer than I’d thought it would be when I started. And I hadn’t intended to include anything explicit. I don’t write much fiction, and I’ve never written, er, smut, before. I felt I had to add an Explicit rating to the story because of this chapter. It might be awful, but I’m hoping it’s not. :)

Jon locked the door. As she moved further into the room, Sansa gave silent thanks to Calla for anticipating their needs so well: the room was nicely warmed by a small fire, with the windows that looked out over the courtyard closed and shutters drawn, while the north-facing window, which overlooked the forest beyond Winterfell, was ajar, its shutters wide open to the starry night sky. A jug of wine and two goblets were placed by the bed; a large pitcher of water and a bowl of fruit sat on her dressing table. A freshly laundered night shift and her favorite shawl hung on pegs. The bed was made up with snowy white linens and a delicately woven, wonderfully soft wool and silk blanket, a wedding gift from Lady Leonora, made from the same material that her daughters had used to make Jon’s wedding cloak.

Sansa removed the lovely cloak, which she hung on a peg, and her crown, which she set on her dressing table. Jon came up behind her and drew her back against him, his arms encircling her. He pressed his lips to the back of her head, breathing in the faint lavender scent of her hair. She relaxed back into his embrace and he drew aside the curtain of her hair to kiss her neck. Sansa sighed in pleasure.

“It was such a lovely day. I don’t know if I ever told you this, but just before Cersei had him arrested, Father had planned to send me and Arya back home. I was distraught, he hadn’t told me what was going on. I knew by then what Joffrey was, but what other prince could I marry? There were none.” She stepped out of Jon’s arms, turning to face him as she clasped his hands in hers. “And Father told me not to fret, that he would find someone much better than Joffrey, someone ‘brave, gentle, and strong.’ And here you are. I wonder if he’d had you in mind when he said it.”

Jon smiled skeptically, “You think your father had in mind for us to wed? I was at The Wall by then, sworn to the Night’s Watch.”

Sansa rolled her eyes with a playful frown of displeasure, “You’re right, of course. And utterly unromantic!”

Jon ducked his head with a rueful smile, “Aye, Sansa, if you sought a husband who’s good with words, one that would write you verses that turn your eyes into sapphires and your lips into rubies, you’ve chosen the wrong man.”

Sansa smiled tenderly at him as she took his hand, “I’d much rather have an honest man who always tells me true. A true knight, who’s brave, gentle, and strong. Father might not have thought for us to wed, but I know that you are exactly the sort of man he’d have chosen for me. And I would choose none other.”

Jon drew her to him and kissed her soundly. Now that they were alone, Sansa didn’t hesitate to respond to his kisses with the same enthusiasm that she’d shown when he’d pulled her into corners or behind trees over the last month. His hands roved over her lithe body, reveling in the feel of her pressed close against him.

After a few minutes, Jon stepped back.”I think we’ll soon be glad that the room is so warm, but right now I’m far too hot. Will you mind if I undress a bit?”

Sansa shook her head, suddenly solemn. She watched as Jon removed his tunic, and the linen shirt he wore beneath it, revealing a scarred chest. She knew what had given him those scars, but she had never seen them up close. She reached out and gently traced the puckered ridges of skin that had healed over the wound directly above his heart, her eyes misting a bit. “It’s the past,” he said softly, as he cupped her cheek.

“I know,” she whispered in reply. “I know.”

He drew closer, now cupping her face with both hands, as he kissed her gently, and then more firmly. After years of yearning for Sansa, a month’s wait had been easy enough to bear, and Jon had been careful that they did not go not far beyond kissing. Both of his previous lovers had been experienced, eager bedmates who’d initiated their intimacies. Sansa was a very modest woman, whose prior experiences had been deliberately violent and abusive, and Jon didn’t want to scare her or push her before she was ready. So far that didn’t appear to be the case. 

He ran his hands down her back, grabbing her small, soft buttocks and squeezing gently as he drew her torso against his. Sansa molded herself against him, her breasts pressing into his chest as they kissed again. His hand move up to cup a breast, stroking the nipple gently through the fabric of her dress and undershift. Sansa sighed softly and pressed herself into his hand. The bodice of her dress was modestly cut, and would not allow Jon the access he sought. Beautiful though it was, it was time for the dress to go. Its laces were at Sansa’s back, and so Jon turned Sansa around to untie her. 

She suddenly stiffened, stammering, “J-Jon what, what are you doing?”

He’d stopped as soon as he felt her tension. “I thought I would help you out of your dress. Are you afraid I might damage it? Would you rather have your maid undo the dress?”

“No, no ... but I ... I thought perhaps I could leave it on while you, while we...”

Jon heard the nervous edge in her voice, and saw that her shoulders were hunched and tense. He took a step back and slid his hand from her shoulder to take her hand in a gentle grasp.

“Sansa, we can do whatever you want, with clothes or without clothes. Nothing will happen tonight unless you want it to happen. I know ... I know it’s not easy to forget what happened before. I swear to you that I’ll never hurt you, never force you, never ask you to do anything you don’t wish to do. We can keep our clothes on and just sleep. To hold you and have you beside me will be enough for me tonight, truly.”

Sansa swallowed hard and turned to face him, her hand still joined with his. “No, no Jon. I want this, and it’s best to just get it over with.” As he frowned and shook his head, she gave a rueful laugh, “I didn’t mean it like that. Well, not entirely like that. I admit that I am afraid. I’ve been looking forward to this night and dreading it at the same time. Calla ... Calla knows what happened to me. You know that she grew up in a brothel in King’s Landing. She said that, that just because it hurt terribly with one man ... doesn’t mean it will always be painful. Some men want it to hurt ... and humiliate ... but others want the woman to enjoy it too. I know you would never hurt me, I know that. So, tonight, I want to. And I’m sorry that I’m ... nervous. I want to do it so that I can stop being afraid to do it.”

“Don’t be sorry, of course you’re nervous.” Jon strode over to the bed-stand and poured wine into a goblet. He drank some and then came back to Sansa, holding the cup to her lips. She smiled at him and took a sip, then took the goblet from his hand.

Jon watched her for a few moments and then, taking her free hand, he drew her towards the bed. He sat on the edge and pulled her to sit down beside him. They watched each other as Sansa continued to sip the wine while Jon stroked her hair. When the goblet was empty, Jon took it from Sansa’s hand and placed it back on the bed-stand. He slid back and pulled her into his arms, kissing her tenderly. Their kiss quickly turned passionate again, and after a few minutes Jon’s hands moved again to the laces of Sansa’s dress. Again she stiffened.

“Too fast?” he asked gently. 

Sansa’s face was flushed and her eyes would not meet his. “I don’t .. no it’s not that. I mean, can’t we do it without taking off our clothes?”

Jon smiled gently. “Well I’ve already removed half of mine and I’ll need to remove the other half in order to ‘do it.’ And I would love so much to see you, see all of you.” He stroked her cheek.

Sansa closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them she reached out to touch the scars on Jon’s chest again. She drew a deep breath and then raised her eyes to meet his. “Jon, I’m ... I too have scars, all over my back. They no longer hurt but I’ve seen them in a mirror and they are ... they are unsightly. Only Calla has seen them. And Brienne. And Maester Wolkan.”

Jon’s face grew solemn, “I know what he did to you, Sansa. Of course you have scars. He glanced down at Sansa’s hand resting against his bare chest. “You would hide your scars from me, _Delen_? Even though I’ve shown you mine?”

Sansa blinked, “ _Delen_?”

Jon leaned in and kissed her gently. “‘Tis the name those Free Folk who speak the Old Tongue have for Jonquil.”

“Delen,” Sansa repeated with a smile. “And what do the Free Folk call Florian?”

“He is known as ‘ _Madern_ ’ in the Old Tongue,” Jon returned Sansa’s smile.

Sansa tried them together, “ _Delen and Madern_.”

“You are my Delen, my love. And you are as sweet and lovely as any flower I’ve ever seen. You are also one of the most courageous and strong people I’ve ever known. Your scars are a testament to that. I love every bit of you, and will cherish all that you are for as long as I’m alive. Including your scarred back. If you’re not ready to show that to me, I can wait. But I would never have you hide it out of shame.” Jon said in a low, soft voice.

Sansa’s eyes were filled with tears as she leaned in to kiss him, hard. She then rose from the bed and declared “and you are my _Madern_. I won’t hide from you.” She then turned and presented her back to Jon, while twisting her long hair and pulling it over her left shoulder. Jon stood and gently worked open the laces of her dress, pausing twice to kiss the exposed flesh of her neck. Sansa shivered in anticipation.

The gown stayed in place after Jon had finished opening its laces, because Sansa’s arms were still encased in its sleeves. She shrugged out of them, and the gown pooled gracefully around her feet. She stepped out of it, her willowy form clad only her undershift. Jon could see thin stripes of scar tissue on the backs of her upper arms and shoulders.

Still with her back to him, Sansa pulled down her smallclothes and stepped out of them, and then she lifted the hem of her shift and pulled the garment over her head, revealing her body to Jon for the first time. She again pulled her hair over her left shoulder, so that Jon could see her back. From her shoulders to her calves, her back was criss-crossed with long, narrow scars. Jon’s vision blurred as he reached to trace one of the thicker lines, which ran from her left shoulder to the top of her right buttock.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, and rasped, “Sansa, you are so beautiful. Your legs, the shape of you. Your hair, I’ve always loved your hair. You have no idea ...” He stepped close and lightly kissed her right shoulder, and then moved his lips up her neck. His tongue traced the shell of her ear. Sansa felt the warmth of his kisses suffusing her body, soothing her nerves. His hand reached around to stroke her bare left breast, and Sansa felt his body tense as she gasped softly.

She turned in his arms to kiss him, and pressed the length of her body against his. She felt the hardness in his breeches and did not flinch. His hands roamed up and down her back, her buttocks, and her thighs. He broke away from her mouth and stepped back a bit to gaze again at her body. There were no scars on her breasts or stomach, or on the front of her legs, just the delectable, delicate pale skin that he’d itched to touch for a very long time. Her small breasts were pert and round, with pink nipples that hardened under his fingers. He bent his head to take one into his mouth, and Sansa gasped his name in shocked delight.

“Is this all right?” he asked.

“Y-yes. I’ve never —”

“I am the first to kiss your breasts?” Jon breathed against her skin.

“You are,” she whispered.

“And do you like it?”

“Yes.”

Jon lifted his head and smiled tenderly at her. “Let us see what else you might like, Delen.” He pulled back the bed clothes and then gently guided her down. He climbed in to lie beside her, and took her back into the circle of his arms. He stroked her hair, and moved it back from her left ear to repeat what he’d already done to her right ear. Sansa sighed again in pleasure, a sound that repeated as he moved down her neck to her breasts. Jon took his time, gently teasing but not completely cloaking his mounting desire. Sansa wasn’t shying away and hadn’t tensed up again, which, combined with her sighs of pleasure, indicated that this was not unwelcome. His hand stole down over her flat abdomen and glanced over the red curls between her legs. He could feel dampness, which was another good sign. He left his hand at the juncture of her thighs and waited for her response while he continued his attentions to her breasts. He took one nipple in his mouth and suckled like a babe would. Sansa moaned softly and thrust her hips against his hand, parting her legs a bit in invitation. 

Jon didn’t need further prompting; his hand stole in between the folds of her sex, which were warm and slick. Keeping his mouth on her breast, his finger gently stroked her sensitive flesh, which seemed to grow wetter by the minute. Sansa’s sighs had turned to soft, throaty gasps that further inflamed his own senses.

Jon hadn’t had to leash his desire with his previous lovers, both had been quick to show him what they’d wanted, and he’d been happy to oblige. He was more than ready to strip off his breeches and bury himself inside Sansa’s body - she was very wet, and he didn’t think he would hurt her. She was enjoying his lovemaking. But she didn’t know what it could be, not yet. He was determined to do all that he could so that their first union might be one of shared pleasure.

His instinct was to try something he’d done with Ygritte. She’d been surprised at first but had thoroughly enjoyed it. And Sansa might, too. Keeping his finger pressed against the nub of flesh that was the center of a woman’s pleasure, he slid down her body to place a kiss on her damp red curls. 

The blissful haze that had enveloped Sansa initially muted her curiosity about what Jon was up to, but when his tongue darted out for its first taste, she shrieked and sat up in the bed. 

“Jon! What are you doing?” she demanded, struggling to catch her breath.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. Did that make you uncomfortable?” Jon asked quietly as he sat up himself.

A deep blush betrayed Sansa’s embarrassed confusion. “I... Is that ... something that people do?” she asked.

“It’s something that I would like to do but not if it upsets you,” he replied.

Sansa relaxed a bit. “I was ... surprised. I wasn’t expecting that. But then, I don’t really know what to expect,” she admitted.

“When it comes to lovemaking, I think that if it feels good it is good,” he said simply, watching her face.

Sansa lifted her eyes to meet his, and then a hint of a smile appeared in the corners of her mouth, “Everything you’ve done has felt good like nothing else has ever felt.”

Jon smiled as he eased her back onto the pillows. “Then may I continue?” She nodded wordlessly and the he kissed her thoroughly, before slowing retracing his earlier path down her torso. Sansa’s gasps returned with increased urgency, and this time when his tongue touched her flesh she moaned softly with an involuntary jerk of her hips. 

Jon was keenly attuned to her reactions as he explored her folds. She gasped breathlessly when he applied pressure with his tongue flattened against her inner lips. He rubbed his tongue up and down, maintaining the pressure, and her gasps changed into soft panting. And then suddenly Sansa cried out and shuddered uncontrollably. 

Jon smiled and kissed her inner thighs as he sat up. Sansa’s eyes were unfocused when she opened them but after a moment they met his and she smiled the loveliest smile Jon had ever seen.

“What was that?” Sansa asked. “I have never felt anything like that, ever.”

“It’s the pleasure from lovemaking that women can experience, just as men can,” Jon replied.

Sansa sat up slowly, still unsure about her body’s reaction. “Calla told me that some women find great pleasure in bed-sport. I just thought she meant that they didn’t feel pain.”

Jon smiled as he moved up to kiss her forehead lightly, before observing “Pleasure is not merely the absence of pain.”

“No, you’re right. That was so, so ... _good_. But there’s more left to do,” she said, looking at him with a mix of eagerness and uncertainty.

“That’s all there need be for now,” Jon said calmly, though his throbbing cock disagreed. “I don’t want to rush you.”

“Jon, I want to. I want to know what it feels like when it’s not awful. And after what you just did — ” she smiled coyly as she looked at him through her lashes, “I want to _now_.” A new thought struck her. “Unless _you_ would rather wait?”

Jon shook his head, even as his hands went to the laces of his breeches. He slid off the bed and stripped his remaining clothes off, then quickly slipped back beside Sansa, who regarded him with shy interest, her teeth unconsciously worrying her lower lip.

“Are you ready?” she asked, as calmly as she could manage. She was not going to show any more nerves, lest he lose his.

He smiled as she lay back on the pillows. His hands cupped her face as he kissed her softly and then with more urgency. She opened her mouth to his kiss and spread her legs so that he could settle himself between them. His hand returned to again gently stroke the sensitive flesh between her legs, his fingers immediately slick with her wetness. She gasped and shifted to allow him better access. He moved down a bit to moisten his cock at the source, drawing it back and forth along her folds, as he’d done earlier with his tongue. 

“Are you ready?” he asked in his turn. His body was tense with the effort to keep himself in check, but he didn’t want to rush her.

Her eyes were closed as she gasped, “Yes.”

Jon kept his eyes open, watching her face for any signs of discomfort as he eased himself into Sansa’s passage. She was wet but very tight, and he was afraid of pushing too hard. “Is this all right?”

Sansa’s eyes opened to meet his, and smiled “Yes, it doesn’t hurt at all.”

Jon smiled tightly in return, “That’s good. Do you think you could relax a bit?” He inched a bit further into her passage.

Sansa had been unaware that she was clenching her muscles, and she forced them to relax. Jon slid the rest of the way into her. His eyes were closed and he held himself over her so that she wasn’t bearing much of his weight. She didn’t feel suffocated. There was no pain. “I’m all right Jon, you’re not hurting me.”

Relieved, he slowly began to move in and out of her body. It didn’t hurt at all, and it was Jon’s body, his scent surrounding her, his breath in her ear. This wasn’t the intense pleasure that she’d just experienced for the first time, but it was pleasure all the same. When he pushed into her, stretching her inner walls, the sensation of fullness was pleasurable. She started to move with him, following the rhythm he set, and a haze of pleasure descended over her again, thickening as his pace increased. 

Sansa was gasping softly with each of his thrusts, and the sound pushed Jon closer to the edge. She had relaxed but was still very tight around him and the pleasure he felt was as intense as it had ever been in his most fevered dreams. Sansa was moving with him, matching his hip movements to thrust herself up against him. He lost himself in the moment, and then abruptly came harder than he ever had before. 

He collapsed on the bed, partly on Sansa but careful not to crush her with his weight. Once he’d caught his breath, he gently pulled out from her, and rolled her into his arms, her head on his shoulder. Sansa nestled into him, her hands against his chest, and laughed lightly, “That wasn’t so bad after all!”

Jon smiled up at the bed canopy, “Most men would be crestfallen to get such an assessment of their lovemaking, but under the circumstances I’ll take it.”

Sansa pushed up on her elbow to look down at him, “Is that what it’s usually like? For you, I mean.”

“Are you asking if you pleased me, Delen?” 

Sansa blushed as she traced the line of his collarbone with a slender finger, “Well, yes, I suppose I am. But I’m also just wondering if this is what lovemaking is like, this, this ... I can’t find the words. Intimate and ... connected. I feel that I’m truly your wife now. That I belong to you, and you to me.”

Jon swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes welling unexpectedly. “Aye, I feel that too. And no, that’s not always what it’s like. Perhaps it’s different with each person. But I’ve never felt this before.”

Sansa leaned over him, their noses almost touching as her hair fell in an curtain that enveloped them both. “Madern,” she murmured before closing in for a kiss. Then she drew back, smiling down at him. “I was wrong, you are perfectly romantic.”

Jon stirred in the hour before dawn and reached out for Sansa. They’d already woken once to make love a second time, and Jon wouldn’t say no to a third. But Sansa was not beside him, and he turned his head to find her sitting in one of the deep windowsills, wearing her nightshift and shawl to ward off the early morning chill, as she gazed up at the creeping dawn sky. Past her, out the window, Jon could see a lone star shining brightly. He sat up and pulled the blanket around his shoulders; she turned to regard him as he climbed out of the bed to join her at the window. With an arm around her waist, he rested his chin on her shoulder and joined her in gazing at the early morning sky.

“Byr-luan” is what the Free Folk call the morning star,” he said softly.

“That’s beautiful. I’ve always loved this hour and the morning star. When I was trapped in King’s Landing I used to wake early and look for the morning star. If I could see it, I knew the coming day would not be so bad. And when I was in the Eyrie, I did the same - we were so high up that the morning star felt closer, almost close enough to touch. And then when I was trapped here with the Boltons, I still would wake early to look for the morning star. What’s the name the Free Folk give it?”

“Bry-luan.”

“ _Byr-luan_ has always given me hope.”

Jon kissed her ear and whispered, “You are my Byr-luan.”

Sansa turned away from the window, and cupped Jon’s face in her hands. “I love you, Jon Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There don’t seem to be many recorded words from the Old Tongue - none that I could find. So I’ve used a few Cornish words because Cornish is an old, nearly extinct language. My apologies if anyone who reads this happens to be Cornish, or speaks Cornish, and feels that I’ve misused the terms - please do drop me a note and let me know. The borrowed words are: 
> 
> “Delen” : Cornish for flower petal  
> “Madern”: Cornish for fortunate, or lucky  
> “Byr-luan: Cornish for morning star


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue: 10 years later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve read this far - thank you! I did not intend to write something nearly this long.

A decade after his momentous return from exile, Jon was once again riding south from the Wall to Winterfell. Their small band of six had just remounted after stopping to eat a hasty lunch, and he was eager to get back home. With nine-year-old Ned, his eldest, the Lord of Winterfell been observing the new ice works at Shadow Tower, and the construction of the western trading post that would allow for faster, more direct transport of the North’s valuable ice to Oldtown and the Summer Islands without harassment from the pirates that infested the Narrow Sea. They would, of course, continue to ship their ice to Braavos, Pentos, and other cities on the Narrow Sea from Eastwatch, but the Queen and her advisers had immediately recognized the advantages of expanding production when Lord Commander Taras Qoqu had suggested starting to mine the unbroken, western end of the Wall. 

The Northern scheme to sell ice from the Wall had succeeded beyond the wildest imaginings of the maester from the Summer Islands. The ever-curious, resourceful Taras had proven Dennys Mallister wrong by not only surviving winter at the Wall, but actually thriving in the community he’d helped to build and transform. And when Lord Commander Mallister had died three years ago, no one at Winterfell was surprised that Taras Qoqu had been almost unanimously elected by those sworn to the Wall to take his place as Lord Commander. 

By then Castle Black had dwindled in significance; the activities of those who dwelled at the Wall were centered at Eastwatch. Taras had been living there for nearly a decade, devising with the Night’s Watch builders the best ways to harvest large slabs of ice from The Wall, and experimenting with techniques and processes for restoring the ice that they’d mined.

Soon after Jon and Sansa had wed, they’d traveled with Taras, Dennys Mallister, Juran Burley, and Wyllis Manderly to the desolate ruins of Eastwatch, to start planning the iceworks and the construction of a trading post. The maester had taken the opportunity to demonstrate that the three sworn men of the Night’s Watch were each able to restore small patches of the Wall’s ice in the usual way, using nothing but fresh water (something that Taras and the Chief Builder did regularly, but which Dennys Mallister, who’d been a ranger before he became Lord Commander, was rarely called upon to do). Jon had been taught how to work the ice himself when he’d been a new recruit at the Wall, but when he’d tried his hand at it that day at Eastwatch he was not successful, to Taras’s great satisfaction. Unsurprisingly, neither Sansa nor Lord Wyllis had been able to create the Wall’s ice. That was enough for Taras to conclude that only those who were sworn to the Wall would be able to work its ice.

The significance of this became clear over time: in the first years of production, the ice harvesting and restoration had been done entirely by the remaining members of the Night’s Watch. But as the market for their ice had grown, and a few of the older members of the Night’s Watch grew too feeble to labor with the ice, Taras knew that they’d need to address their dwindling supply of men capable of working the ice. 

Finding people willing to live at the Wall was not a problem: as soon as folks learned of the gold that the Night’s Watch rapidly accrued once their ice trade had commenced, Lord Commander Mallister found himself confronted with young men seeking work on the Wall. Some could be employed doing tasks that supported the Night’s Watch men, as could their sisters and wives. These workers were paid handsome wages, which kept them keen in their work. Eastwatch-by-the-Sea rapidly grew from an abandoned, ruined outpost of a militant monastic order to a bustling little town with families, tradefolk, and even some craftsmen in residence. 

Four years into the enterprise, with Dennys Mallister’s blessing, Taras had approached young Athen Rivers, who’d come up North from the Riverlands the previous year with his wife, Anabes. Taras wondered if the young couple were interested in participating in an experiment. If it failed, nothing would change and they could continue earning wages through their work at the Wall. If it succeeded, they’d both be sworn to the the Wall - to the Wall itself, and not to the Night’s Watch - and they would be afforded a share of the profits that the Night’s Watch made through its iceworks. The pair were hard workers - for a year Athen had been smithing and repairing the Night’s Watch’s tools, as Anabes toiled in the Eastwatch laundry. Taras was confident that, if the experiment worked, Athen and Anabes Rivers would be excellent founding members of a new kind of community, which would be attached to the Wall just as the Night’s Watch was, but unconstrained by vows of chastity. 

Taras had described in a letter how he’d traveled to Castle Black with Athen and Anabes, where Lord Commander Mallister had administered their oaths, beneath the same weirwood tree that Taras had stood beneath years earlier when he’d joined the Night’s Watch. And then Athen and Anabes had each tried to form new ice on the Wall. They both were able to do so, as easily as any man of the Night’s Watch. And so the problem of the Wall’s aging workforce had been neatly resolved: an oath administered by someone already sworn to the Wall could commit new men _and women_ to the unique service which for millennia had been exclusively performed by the Night’s Watch.

Although the remaining men of the Night’s Watch had adjusted very quickly (and quite happily) to the presence of women at Eastwatch who cooked and cleaned and sewed, many of them were quite disturbed at the thought of women who were sworn to the Wall as they themselves were. But not just as they were - these women had husbands, and although Athen and Anabes had been childless when they took their vows they soon had a growing family. Lord Commander Mallister had suggested to the grumblers that they could renew their vows if they wished, this time omitting the commitment to chastity, as the newcomers had. But the men who’d chosen to remain in the Night’s Watch were mostly older and not actually interested in taking wives for themselves. 

There was a notable exception: a year after Athen and Anabes Rivers had made their vows, Wynafryd Manderly had taken the oath that committed her life and labor to maintaining the Wall. She’d developed a close friendship with Taras Qoqu when she’d accompanied her father on his many trips to Eastwatch. The maester and the Manderly heiress corresponded regularly when Wynafryd wasn’t at Eastwatch. 

Immediately after Wynafryd had made her vow, Taras Qoqu had renewed his own commitment to the Wall — this time omitting the vow of chastity. And then Taras Qoqu had married Wynafryd Manderly beneath the same weirwood tree. They now had a two-year old son, and another child on the way. The children born at the Wall were not themselves sworn to it, and Taras and Dennys Mallister had agreed that no one younger than sixteen should be allowed to take the vow. 

Jon could only marvel at the changes that had so quickly come to the Wall, and felt a brief pang that old comrades like Edd, Pipp, and Grenn were not alive to see it. Sam had expressed his surprise at the news that Taras Qoqu was permitted to take a wife; Jon thought he’d detected disapproval between the lines of Sam’s letter, ironic given that the Six Kingdom’s Grand Maester (Sam had completed his chain five years ago) had three children of his own, in addition to Little Sam.

“Father, I can see the north towers, we’re almost home!” his son interrupted Jon’s musing. The Lord of Winterfell smiled at the earnest boy riding at his side. Nine-year-old Ned Stark had the dark hair and long face of his father’s Stark kin, but his eyes were a bright Tully blue. From his mother he’d also inherited a quick wit and an aptitude for reading, although he also loved to spend time in the saddle and was slowly developing marksmanship skills with his bow. This had been Ned’s first journey of any duration away from home without his mother and younger siblings. The young heir to Winterfell and The North had enjoyed their visits to Shadow Tower at the western end of the Wall, and to Bear Island. But they’d been away for more than two months and Ned was as eager as his father was to be back home with their family.

“Shall we take the last stretch at a faster pace?” Jon asked with a twinkle in his eye.

His son’s smile always reminded Jon of his uncle, for whom the boy was named. “Yes! Let’s race!” as he spurred his slender mare to a gallop.

Jon turned to the retainers riding with them with a smile of his own. “Don’t feel obliged to keep up - we’ll see you back at Winterfell,” before spurring his own mount to follow his son’s lead.

Jon and Ned were neck-and-neck as they sped towards Winterfell’s open north gate. He called to Ned to slow down a bit as they drew nearer the castle, dropping back to let the boy take the lead. They’d slowed to a fast trot as first Ned and then Jon rode into the courtyard.

“I won!” Ned exclaimed triumphantly. He slid down from his saddle and as Jon followed suit, two small figures with red hair emerged from the stables nearby. 

“Papa!” seven-year-old Lyanna flew towards Jon. She was the mirror image of her mother at that age, a strikingly pretty, lively girl with her mother’s auburn hair and charming manners. Like her older brother, Lyanna was as quick to pick up reading as their mother had been, and she was learning to sew and to dance and play music like a well-bred young lady. But in contrast to Sansa’s restrictive upbringing, Lyanna was not constantly supervised by a frowning septa, and was allowed to explore and play freely outside, with Ned and the other children in the castle. 

Her four-year-old brother, Benjen, was hard on her heels, making a beeline for his older brother. Like Lyanna, Benjen’s looks favored their mother’s Tully heritage, although his hair was a darker russet that was often compared to his celebrated uncle, Robb Stark. A sturdy little boy in seemingly constant motion, Benjen was happy to follow his older sister about when she was outside, but nine-year-old Ned was his firm favorite.

Jon bent and scooped Lyanna up as the girl threw her arms around his neck and pressed a warm kiss on his cheek. “Did you miss us, Papa?”

“Every day, my sweet. Have you been helping your mother? Where is she now?”

Lynanna nodded assuringly, “I have been helping her, Papa, and even Benjen has been behaving himself. She’s resting now upstairs with Kitty.”

Their youngest child, born nearly two years ago, was a quiet little girl who had her father’s dark hair and grey eyes. She closely resembled Arya, but when Sansa had suggested naming the babe after her aunt, Jon had objected. They’d not heard from Arya since she set out to explore the western seas, and Jon felt that bestowing her name upon their daughter would suggest that they did not expect to ever see Arya again. 

Moreover, he’d been quite insistent that, as their first daughter had been named for his mother, their second should be named for Sansa’s. Sansa had been doubtful, given Catelyn Stark’s widely known resentment of the boy she’d believed was her husband’s bastard son. But Jon had persuaded his wife that it was only right, as Lady Cat had been a good and kind-hearted woman, whose dislike of her bastard stepson was out of character, the result of the lie they’d all been told about his parentage. And so their fourth child was named Catelyn, after her mother’s mother. But as the infant grew, her quietly observant nature reminded her older sister not of the grandmother she’d never known, but of the cats that lived in Winterfell’s kitchens and stables. Lyanna’s nickname for her baby sister was quickly adopted by the rest of the family, and now Jon and Sansa’s youngest daughter was known by all in the household as Kitty-Cat, or just Kitty.

Jon smiled as he set Lyanna back on her feet. “Resting, is she? I’m glad you’ve been here to help her.” He turned to watch as Ned squirmed to extract himself from Benjen’s enthusiastic embrace. Jon intervened, pulling the smaller boy off his brother and swooping him into the air, “And you, your sister tells me you have been well-behaved while we were away. Have you been helping your mother too?”

“No!” Benjen chortled.

“No?” Jon asked with mock sternness, “You mean you haven’t been reading her the reports she receives? You’ve not been scribing for her?”

“No, Papa!” Benjen shouted gleefully before dissolving into giggles.

“Why not?” Jon persisted.

“Because I can’t read yet, Papa!” Benjen retorted, thoroughly enjoying his father’s teasing.

Jon continued the game as he headed towards the chambers he shared with his wife, “You still can’t read? I thought you might have learned while I was away. Well what have you been doing? Have you been helping your mama by fetching her things?”

“I brought Kitty a frog,” Benjen replied earnestly.

“He did, Papa,” Lyanna piped up, as she skipped along beside her father. Ned followed a few steps behind with letters for his mother that he’d extracted from his saddlebag. “Benjen caught a sweet little frog and instead of keeping it for himself he gave it to Kitty.”

“Is Kitty old enough to have a frog?” Jon asked.

“No not really so I took him back. But I let her see him and touch him when she wants to.” Benjen replied. He started to wiggle in Jon’s arms, “Let me down Papa! I’ll go get him to show you!” 

As they’d reached the top of the stairs, Jon set the boy down. “The frog can wait, Benjen —” but Benjen was already streaking off towards the nursery. Jon sighed and shook his head, before turning down the hall toward his bedchamber, his two older children trailing behind him.

He opened the door quietly, without knocking. But Sansa was not asleep. A scribe was seated at a portable desk, poised to take dictation. Maester Wolkan was also in the room, seated next to the scribe, with an account book in his lap. Sansa herself was sitting, half-reclined on their bed, her back supported by pillows. Her swollen belly was enormous; she looked ready to give birth very soon. 

All three had turned to look at the newcomers, the maester and scribe rising to their feet when they saw Jon, and Sansa’s face lighting up as she cried, “You’re back!” Her eyes shifted to her firstborn son standing next to Jon and she exclaimed, “Come here my darlings, I’ve missed you both so much!”

Maester Wolkan and the scribe bowed wordlessly to the queen and carried their work out of the room, as Jon and the children rushed over to the bed. Jon reached Sansa first and bent to kiss her soundly, and then gently stroked Kitty’s plump cheek as she lay napping, nestled against her mother’s side. He stepped aside so that Sansa could embrace Ned and kiss his head. 

“Tell me everything! Did you have a good journey?” asked Sansa with a smile, as she stroked Ned’s hair.

“Yes, Mama, we did, we saw the men starting the iceworks at Shadow Tower and the pier they’ve built. And I brought letters for you from Maester Taras, and from Lord Glover.” Ned held out the parchments to his mother.

“Thank you, my darling boy. Why don’t you put them on my dressing table, I’ll read them later,” Sansa replied with a teary smile. She’d missed them both so much. Beside her, Kitty stirred and woke. She blinked sleepily at her mother and then at Jon. The toddler regarded her father uncertainly. But she didn’t fuss, instead turning to Sansa and pulling at her bodice. 

“Are you hungry sweet-pea?” Kitty nodded. “Let’s find Nurse, remember Mama doesn’t have milk for you anymore. Lyanna,” Sansa called over to her daughter, who was making faces in the mirror over Sansa’s dressing table, “would you please take Kitty to find Brynna? She’s hungry.”

“All right, Mama,” Lyanna agreed easily. She came over to the bed and held out her hands to her baby sister, “Come on Kitty, let’s find Nurse.” She helped her sister to slide off the side of the bed, before taking her hand to lead her away.

“Why don’t you go and wash up, my love,” Sansa said to Ned. “And change into clean clothes. Let me speak with your father now, and then later at supper you can tell me all about your visit to Shadow Tower.”

“And Bear Island, we went there too,” Ned reminded her.

“Yes, I won’t tell her any of the details so that you can be the one to tell her everything,” Jon reassured him. “In the meantime, can you intercept Benjen and keep him from running in here with his frog?”

Ned rolled his eyes, “I can try. But don’t blame me if he comes in anyway.” He turned to head for the nursery.

Jon sat down on the edge of the bed and bent down to kiss Sansa, more lingeringly this time. She’d typically remained quite active during her pregnancies, only taking to her bed in the final week or two before delivering. “The raven you sent to Bear Island last month didn’t mention that you were much further along than we’d thought when I left. I thought you weren’t due for nearly four months yet! When does the maester think the babe will come? I would have come back sooner if I’d known I was cutting it so close.”

Sansa smiled up at him and pushed herself so that she was upright a bit more. “I’ve still got more than three months to go, as we’d thought, so you were in no danger of missing the birth.” She laughed at the look of skeptical confusion on Jon’s face as he gently rubbed her belly, and then explained, “the maester says I’m carrying twins this time.”

“Twins?” Jon asked in disbelief, both of his hands now resting on the swelling dome.

“Yes, and I think he’s right,” Sansa replied. “You’ll recall that I was more unwell in the early months this time than I usually am, and more tired. But really, this,” she nodded at her belly, “is telltale enough that I’m carrying two babes.”

“Are you well, Delen?” Jon asked in concern. Sansa’s pregnancies thus far had been remarkably smooth and untroubled, but for the early sickness that plagued many women. But he was always a bit anxious when she was with child - after all, his mother, Sansa’s aunt, had died giving birth to him.

But Sansa’s own mother had been healthy and strong after birthing five children, and although she was not looking forward to three and a half months of increasing ungainliness and discomfort, Sansa was not worried about her health. She actually enjoyed some aspects of being pregnant. She smiled reassuringly, “I am, my love, you need not fret. I am big enough now that I find it uncomfortable to sit in my office - or anywhere - for very long, so I’ve been taking to bed more. And I’m short of breath now as I usually don’t get until the final weeks of carrying a babe. Which is really no surprise, given how big I am. Also I have been simply ravenous the last few weeks. I shall soon be bigger than I ever have been before, and I imagine I’ll look like an enormous sow before it’s over.”

Although she’d been quick to recover her energy and trim figure after each birth, four pregnancies - now five - had augmented the curves of Sansa’s body. Her hips were wider and fuller as were her breasts. Jon regularly showed his wife just how well he liked her curves, but he suspected that not even she was fully aware of how much pleasure he took in the sight of her growing belly. “You are never more beautiful to me than when you are carrying a new child within you.”

“Children,” Sansa corrected him with a sly smile. She gave him a beguiling look through her lashes, “And I am glad to hear that, because now that my sickness has passed I have been yearning to have you back in my bed, Lord Stark.”

Jon answered with a leering grin of his own. “Is that so, Your Grace? I am ever at your service.” He leaned in to kiss her while his hand slid down her thigh.

“Mmmmm ...” Sansa’s eyes were closed and she smiled as she gently pushed Jon away. She opened her eyes and laughed as he drew further back, afraid he’d put too much pressure on her belly. “I’m only putting you off for a bit, because you could do with a bit of washing yourself. And because I have some news that I must share privately.”

Jon looked at her quizzically. “What is it?” He strode over to the washstand, where a large pitcher of water, basin, soap, and clean towels awaited. He stripped off his tunic and shirt and began to wash up.

Sansa pushed herself to sit fully upright and then swung her legs off the bed’s edge. She walked over to her dressing table and then withdrew a small key from the bodice of her dress. It was suspended on a long, delicate silver chain that she wore around her neck. Sansa pulled the chain over her head, and then picked up a small wooden case. She fit the key into the case, turned the lock, and then lifted the lid. She set the open case back on the dressing table. Coming up behind her, shirtless and rubbing his wet hair with a towel, Jon saw a folded letter and a raven scroll lay inside the case. Sansa picked up the letter and held it out to him, explaining, “This arrived four days ago by a special courier from Riverrun. It’s from Bran.”

Jon flipped the towel over his shoulder as he reached for the parchment. “From Riverrun?” Letters from Bran had become increasingly rare over the last few years, though not for a lack of news from King’s Landing. Jon and Sansa were more regularly apprised of what was happening in the south through the letters they received from Sam and Brienne. 

As Sansa had guessed would happen, the Prince of Dorne had declared his country free and independent six years ago, with Bran’s blessing. Three years ago Sansa’s cousin (and Bran’s), Robert Arryn, had proclaimed the Vale’s independence from King’s Landing, again with Bran’s full cooperation. Sam had reported that Tyrion Lannister had argued vehemently and fruitlessly against these territorial losses. Bran had secretly negotiated each secession personally, without consulting his Hand, or even informing him about them until they were made public. 

Jon looked apprehensively at Sansa as he held the letter. “Is it bad news?”

Sansa shook her head. “I don’t think so. But it is quite extraordinary. Better that you just read it yourself.”

Jon unfolded the letter and began to read silently.

_“To my dearest sister, Sansa, the Queen in the North,_

_By the time you receive this letter I shall be gone from King’s Landing, and no longer a king._

_It was my intention to oversee the healing of the lands and peoples of Westeros from so many years of war and the devastation wrought by monstrous dragons and equally monstrous men. Each of the former Seven Kingdoms is now stable and under good leadership; let us hope that continues. My last act as King will be to dissolve the concentrated, corrosive power that resided for more than three centuries in the city founded by and named for the Targaryen invaders. They are gone, never to return, and the city itself has been rebuilt to be a home for smallfolk securely engaged in commerce and industry, without the shadow of the Red Tower looming over them. Before I depart this city, I shall grant independence to the Reach, the Stormlands, the Riverlands, the Westerlands, and to the Iron Islands. I shall give over the Crownlands that lie north of King’s Landing to our uncle, Edmure Tully, while King’s Landing and the Crownlands that lie south of it will be part of the Stormlands, as will Dragonstone._

_I shall go to the Isle of Faces to live with the green men who dwell in its weirwood groves. I will travel there in secret; only Podrick, Brienne, our uncle Edmure, and you will know where I am. I ask you to keep this secret from all, save of course Jon._

_The Isle of Faces is one of the last places of magic in Westeros, and I’ve known for a long time that it will be my final home. The time for magic in Westeros has passed; the magic of the Isle will fade and pass into memory, as shall I. It is time for men and women to rule themselves without resorting to unnatural powers lent by magical beasts, visions, or myths. There will always be good men and evil men, powerful men and weak men. Power need not corrupt, but there is always the risk that it will and so I think it is better for all that no one man, or woman, holds too much._

_You have rebuilt the Stark name, family, and home, as well as the North itself. I know that our mother and father would have been very proud of you, Sansa._

_Your brother,  
Brandon Stark_

_PS: While I cannot know for certain what lies ahead for our sister, know that as I write this letter, Arya is alive and well._

Jon looked up at Sansa with tear-filled eyes. “This is good news, I think.”

Sansa nodded, “Yes.” She reached back into the case and withdrew the scroll. “But as you can imagine it has caused quite a stir. This message arrived two days ago; it’s from Sam.”

Jon set Bran’s letter down and took the scroll from Sansa’s outstretched hand. Sam’s handwriting was unusually small and cramped as he had much to communicate in just one ravenscroll.

“ _To Sansa Stark, Queen in the North,_

_Brandon Stark has abdicated, after granting independence to the traditional territories that remained in his kingdom. He did this via a proclamation, written in his own hand, that Tyrion Lannister was instructed to read in front of an assemblage of lords and citizens in Kings Landing. Bran had entrusted the sealed letter to Brienne until it was time for Tyrion to read it aloud before us all; Tyrion had not known what it was about prior to this. By then Bran was no longer in the city. Nothing indicates foul play, but his whereabouts are unknown. Tyrion has men scouring the countryside. I shall write again when there is more news to share._

_Yours sincerely,  
Grandmaester Samwell Tarly”_

Jon grimaced as he read Sam’s missive, shaking his head as he placed it on the table next to Bran’s letter. “I understand why Bran wanted to leave in secrecy and why he wants no one to know where he is. I can even understand why he broke up his kingdom ... but he doesn’t appear to have had any consideration for the position he put Tyrion Lannister in by announcing it in this way. I can’t say I like the man, but this hardly seems like a fitting reward for the years of service he’s given to restoring King’s Landing, and much of the countryside as well.”

Sansa had walked over to a window, and was gazing out at the setting sun, “Tyrion Lannister did not devote the last ten years of his life to rebuilding King’s Landing out of the goodness of his heart or a love of its people. When Bran named him Hand, Tyrion claimed that it would be his penance for bringing Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons to Westeros. He made a very nice show of remorse and regret, but I don’t know how sincere it was. He was very happy to wear the pin that proclaimed him Bran’s Hand, when he’d been serving as Daenerys Targaryen’s Hand just a few months earlier. Tyrion has always been motivated by vanity, self-importance, and a lust for power - to wreak revenge on his enemies and to be seen by others as important. I imagine that he has quite enjoyed being Bran’s Hand, holding a position of prominence and placed in charge of restoring the city he’d helped to destroy.”

She turned to Jon, “Tyrion is a complicated man. He knows that others view him as culpable and complicit in the Dragon Queen’s crimes, but he’s always had excuses for why none of it was really his fault. Daenerys pulled the wool over his eyes, Cersei went back on her word. If only this had happened, if only that hadn’t happened.”

Sansa walked over to his wardrobe, with Jon two steps behind her. She pulled out a fresh shirt and handed it to him, continuing as he put it on. “I don’t believe I ever told you this, but when Brienne was here for our wedding, she told me that when Bran’s small council had discussed what to do with The Wall, Tyrion had argued passionately that Bran must not yield it to me and the North. He eventually admitted that he was against ceding The Wall to the North because he felt that the Night’s Watch must continue on as it always had, so that you would remain there, as your punishment. I suppose I should give him credit for anticipating my motives. Tyrion could be kind when doing so cost him nothing, and his morals were better than his father’s or his sister’s - but that’s not saying much. I think he was jealous of you, because Daenerys had loved you in a way that she’d never have loved him. And because you’d had the courage to kill her, which he had not.”

“And he knew that I loved you,” Jon said quietly. “You who were once his wife.”

Sansa smiled flatly, as she handed Jon a clean tunic. “I used to respect him, and I once thought him very clever. But there was never any love between us, none at all. So if he wished to keep you forever at The Wall to keep us apart, it was purely from spite and malice. I don’t know that I believe he would be so petty. But I’m certain that Bran has long known exactly what Tyrion is, far better than you or I. Bran’s letter makes it clear that he had been planning this for some time. He didn’t just forget to tell Tyrion.”

Jon nodded. “I think you have the right of it, Delen. In fact, if you recall, Sam’s letters have described how adamantly Tyrion argued against allowing Manfrey Martell, and then your cousin Robin, to secede. He was Bran’s advisor, but it seems that Bran often did not heed his advice, and kept much from him.”

They both turned their heads at a light knock at the door. “Enter,” called Sansa.

Calla popped her head in, “Your Grace, my lord, the kitchen has supper ready whenever you’d like to have it. Will you have it up here or in the solar?”

Sansa smiled, “The solar, please, Calla. We’ll be down in just a moment And the children will join us, as usual.”

“Very well, Your Grace,” Calla nodded respectfully, and shut the door behind her.

Sansa crossed the room, back to her dressing table. She put the letter and the scroll back in the case, and relocked it. She set it back on the table, and returned the chain to its place around her neck.

“Who else here knows about Bran’s abdication?” asked Jon.

“At Winterfell? Besides us right now I believe that only Maester Wolkan knows - I told him after Sam’s message arrived. He doesn’t know about the letter - no one else knows that it was from Bran, since it came from Riverrun. But word of his disappearance, and the rest, will spread very quickly.”

Jon was deep in thought as they left their bedchamber and headed to the solar where the family often gathered for private meals. His hand rested lightly on the small of Sansa’s back as he walked with her. “We’ll want to confer with the Northern lords, and then perhaps with your cousin in The Vale, and your uncle in Riverrun. The North has been on its own for a decade and we’ve been fortunate so far to not have much trouble, no roving bands of brigands or trouble-makers. But the realms of Westeros ought to cooperate for common defense. What happens in one can spread to others.”

Sansa nodded. “You’re right, that’s a very good point. Oh, I’m so glad you’re back, it was hard to not have anyone to discuss this with.”

Jon stopped before they’d reached the solar door. “We’ll need to mind our tongues around others when it comes to Bran. Sam’s scroll contains no secrets but that letter does.”

Sansa frowned, “Should I burn it?”

Jon shook his head, “I don’t think that’s necessary. We’ll just need to be careful to focus our talk on what is happening in King’s Landing now.” He opened the door and followed Sansa into the room where his children were already seated and servants from the kitchen were laying out the evening meal.

At the end of the noisy, merry supper, Brynna came to fetch Kitty and put her to bed, and took Benjen (and his frog) with her. Lyanna was sitting on her father’s knee, proudly showing him the stitching sampler she was working on under Calla’s skilled instruction. Sansa had grown uncomfortable sitting at the table and was slowly pacing the length of the room, with Ned walking at her side as he told her about a storm they’d encountered while sailing to Bear Island. 

A light knock at the door announced the entrance of Maester Wolkan, carrying a ravenscroll from King’s Landing.

Sansa called over to where Jon and their daughter were sitting, “It’s getting late, Lyanna.” She turned to Ned, “And you too, my darling - you’ve had a very long day and your eyes look ready to close whether or not you’re in bed.” After some half-hearted protests, the children said their goodnights and headed to bed.

Sansa had asked the maester to stay. Once Ned closed the door behind him, she broke the seal on the scroll and spread it open.

“It’s from Sam,” she informed them. “I’ll read it aloud.”

_“To Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North,”_

Sansa paused with an audible gasp. Jon frowned and came to stand beside her, asking, “What is it?” 

“Tyrion Lannister is _dead!_ ” she exclaimed, before resuming. 

_“This morning Tyrion Lannister’s body was found in his chambers. It was likely a problem with his heart, although as far as I am aware he’d had no health complaints. He was very distraught by Bran’s decision to dissolve the kingdom, and also by Bran’s disappearance. We’ll send his body to be buried with his kin at Casterly Rock. Gendry Baratheon arrives tomorrow to address the citizens of King’s Landing. I shall let you know as soon as we learn anything reliable about where your brother might be. There are many wild rumors circulating but nothing credible has surfaced yet._

_Yours sincerely,  
Grandmaester Samwell Tarly”_

The three of them stared at each other in astonishment. Sansa sat down heavily in the chair she’d been standing beside. Jon put his arm around her shoulders, as Maester Wolkan asked in concern, “Are you all right, Your Grace?”

Sansa leaned her head against Jon. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Thank you. This is another shock, on the heels of Bran’s disappearance. ... Sam says it was his heart ...”

Wolkan frowned thoughtfully, “It might very well have been. When he was here at Winterfell I observed that Lord Tyrion seemed to be a habitually heavy drinker. And by now he was past his fortieth year, no longer young. I am not well-versed in the ailments that can afflict those with his condition, but heavy drinking has helped many a man into an early grave.”

Jon took the scroll from Sansa’s hands, scanning its lines himself. “Neither of Sam’s messages have mentioned unrest in King’s Landing, or suggested that foul play might be connected to Bran’s disappearance or Tyrion’s death.”

“And by all accounts, Gendry’s hold in the Stormlands is firm,” Sansa observed. “He did well in marrying Lord Swann’s daughter. There will be a new Baratheon king in Kings Landing, better than any of his predecessors.”

“And better loved there, I’d imagine,” Jon added. “Gendry grew up in Kings Landing and they’ll see him as one of their own.”

“Exactly. So I think for the time being we need not fear that there will be turmoil in Kings Landing in the wake of Bran’s abdication and the death of his Hand. Before he disappeared, Bran must have communicated with Gendry and with my uncle Edmure about his plan to give them their independence, and perhaps he did also with the lords in the Reach, the Westerlands, and the Iron Islands.”

Jon sat down in the chair next to his wife. “Perhaps, although I spoke at length with Walder Greyjoy at Shadow Tower just a few weeks ago, and he said nothing about Yara taking the Salt Throne. I wonder what will happen there; the Ironborn have thrown in their lot with Casterly Rock, and have turned from raiding to providing secure shipping for gold and other goods in and out of the Westerlands. The Lannisters have not rebuilt their fleet, depending entirely on the Ironborn now for their seafaring. Walder Greyjoy came north on his wife’s behalf to see if they might pick up business transporting The Wall’s ice to Oldtown.”

“I thought Taras Qoqu’s cousins were handling that?” Sansa asked.

“To the Summer Islands, yes. Greyjoy was proposing that they might pick up shipments bound for points on the western coast of Westeros, and even Dorne if we decide to start supplying that market from Shadow Tower instead of Eastwatch.

“What does Taras think of this proposal?” wondered Sansa.

“He thinks you should consider it, and I believe he’s laid out his reasoning in the letter that Ned brought back. He mentioned that while having some of the Night’s Watch and Winterfell’s gold deposited in the Iron Bank of Braavos is a good thing, as commercial ties are a good way to build alliances, he and Lord Manderly worry about keeping all of our wealth across the Narrow Sea. And it just so happens that Walder Greyjoy’s Lannister cousin, Martyn, is opening a bank in Lannisport - the first true bank that Westeros has ever had. Taras thinks we might consider becoming one of their first clients.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows and glanced at the maester to gauge his reaction. “Does he? That is ... interesting. I cannot say I’m eager to entrust our gold to the Lannisters, although I’ve never met Martyn Lannister or Walder Greyjoy. He was a Frey before he married Yara. I commend his decision to shed that dreadful name and take his wife’s instead.”

Jon laughed, “He has an easy manner and seems bright enough.”

“Well he’d have to be to survive as Yara’s husband. I met her in Kings Landing after the Dragon’s Sack. We spoke mostly of Theon. She looked at me in a way that men more often do - it was the first time I’d ever encountered a woman like that. I’m surprised she married anyone.”

Maester Wolkan cleared his throat politely, “Your Grace, I heard from the maester at Casterly Rock that Yara Greyjoy married, as so many from noble houses do, because she needed an heir. Walder Frey is twelve years her junior, just sixteen when they wed, and I imagine that a husband so young has not interfered with her the way an older man might have. I believe they have one son, who must be seven or eight years old by now.”

“Well, good for her. And it sounds like she’s leading the Ironborn on a new path - we’ve not been troubled by raiders from the Iron Isles. I’d half-expected we would, once Jon and I married. She’d been an ardent supporter of the Dragon Queen, for all the good that did her. Even surrounded by the smoldering ruins of Kings Landing, she was not ready to admit that killing Daenerys Targaryen was no crime.”

She turned to Jon, “I’d shared my concerns about her with Bran after our wedding, but in his reply he said that I need not worry on that front. And he was right.”

The room was silent for a long moment before Maester Wolkan spoke up in a quiet, careful voice. “Speaking of your brother, Your Grace, I had today a ravenscroll from the Citadel. The Archmaester wondered if we’ve had any news of Brandon Stark. The thought is that he might have returned to the North, the place of his birth, to live amongst his kin. If Your Grace approves, I will reply that I know nothing about Brandon Stark’s whereabouts, that he is not here at Winterfell, and that we’ve had no reports of anyone in the North seeing him.”

The maester’s face was as impassive as his tone. Sansa smiled to herself and replied in an equally neutral voice, “Yes, please do so. And ask the Archmaester to keep us informed if they hear news of my brother in Oldtown.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” Maester Wolkan said as he bowed, “I shall send a message to the Citadel first thing in the morning. And now I shall bid you both goodnight.”

As the door closed behind the maester, Jon rose to his feet. He held out his hands to Sansa and helped her to stand. Standing behind her, he slid his arms around her belly, and murmured in her ear, “We’ve dealt with the realm enough for one evening. I’m eager for bed now.”

Sansa smiled archly and tilted her head back to kiss her husband. “Lead the way, my lord.”


End file.
